


More than a Passing Fancy

by alyxpoe



Series: Holmes of the Future [2]
Category: Avatar (2009), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sci-Fi, Sequel, hang with me, men having sex, men kissing, science fiction AU, thank you Gene Rodenberry, thank you James Cameron, this will be fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 50,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Further adventures of Captain Holmes and Ambassador Watson!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Qualrics and Aphrodisiacs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starrysummernights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/gifts), [lobstergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/gifts), [Iriya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/gifts).



> A sequel to my story: Some Things Never Change (http://archiveofourown.org/works/775433/chapters/1458584 )...is now a crossover with another SCI FI MOVIE that is currently one of a kind :) )

“If I say _run_ , do it!” Captain Holmes shouts as he drops down out of the bright green-leafed branches. He slides down the yellow bark a little ways before landing on his feet. Ambassador Watson is in the tangle of branches right behind him, except that he just jumps to the ground and lands with his knees bent, tall boots digging into the soft, mossy ground beneath. They are both shirtless; John’s skin is tan and there is a slight red tinge to the porcelain across Sherlock’s shoulders. They have been climbing in and out of trees all afternoon, searching and cataloging the plant life here on this orbiting moon called Bellatrix.

Around them, a canyon wall of pink and tan rock stretches across the horizon to the east and the west, as far as the eye can see. The sky above them is pale blue with low, white clouds. Beyond the canyon are the green foothills of a great mountain range. John moves his gaze from the scenery back to Sherlock when a movement of the other man’s arms brings his attention back around.

Sherlock holds one wide palm high into the air and starts folding his fingers down in a silent countdown. When he gets down to two, the ground beneath their feet rumbles. John’s eyes go wide and he spreads his legs apart. John does not see Sherlock get to “one” because at that moment a herd of gigantic quadrupeds comes rushing through the grove, tearing his attention away from his lover.

The animals are big with thick legs like elephants back on Earth, though they do not have any type of proboscis; rather their distinguishing facial feature is a single long ivory white horn growing from the center of their foreheads. John crouches lower under the tree as he watches the creatures with awe. Sherlock has circled around behind him and now stands with one hand on his kneeling partner’s shoulder. John remains where he is feeling the ground shake under his hands. The last creature rushes past them and John takes note of its scarlet red hindquarters, white middle and black neck and head. He could swear he saw cloven hooves that were as black and glossy as polished carbonite.  The last animal is about half the size of the others, its head a good meter from the top of Sherlock’s. It snorts and bucks as it gallops by, a forgotten mouthful of long yellow grass hanging from the side of its muzzle. John is thrilled.

“Guess we didn’t have to run after all?” He regards his partner over his shoulder with a smile. Sherlock shrugs and for a second his fingers tighten against John’s bare skin.  

“Those were just the female Qualrics, John. The males are aggressive and rarely seen in herds.” He grins back, his green eyes sparkling in the dappled light under the tree. “The males are also much larger.”

John’s smile falters for a second, he is thinking: _larger_? Wow. He wipes his damp hands on his black trousers as he stands. Sherlock gives him a little pat/shove between the shoulders before turning on his heel and shimmying back up the tree. John snorts and follows him up. They wrap their legs around the trunk of the tree, and then they pull themselves up using the branches for leverage. In the past few days, John has gotten really good at it; though it hasn’t always been so, judging by the lines of scabbed-over scrapes from human skin meeting the rough, alien bark up and down his torso.

The yellow branches are thick enough for two grown men to stand on comfortably. John retrieves the black canvas pack from where he left it hanging before he dropped down to watch the Qualrics. He thinks to himself about how much he enjoys it when Sherlock finds some new thing to share with him: sometimes it’s a simple as a new type of vegetation, the colors of a multi-sun set or even something as large as the giant creatures that just ran past.  He continues to be as fascinated with Sherlock’s knowledge of the biology of other planets as he is with the man himself.

Currently, the man himself is hanging out on one of the smaller branches with one muscular arm like a monkey. He is using his other hand to gently pry bright green leaves from the end of the branch. The only problem with this is that each time his hand grips the base of the leaf to remove it from its pithy home gooey urine-colored sap wells up from the wound. The stuff stinks. John carefully makes his way over to where Sherlock is hanging and leans down, placing his knees on the branch near Sherlock’s hand.

“Have you managed to get any without getting that nasty sap all over you?” John asks, peering down just as the other man grips a leaf between two fingers and pulls it.  The leaf releases from the branch with a _pfft_ sound; sap is now running directly down Sherlock’s arm. He hangs there for a moment, looking between the single leaf in his hand and the arm now covered with sap. He huffs in an irritated manner and holds the leaf out for John to grasp. John takes it as if it is a priceless treasure, carefully tucking it away into a small billfold-like folder that he is carrying in his trouser pocket. He returns it and starts to reach down to give Sherlock a hand back up into the tree; however, Sherlock has already dropped back down to the moss, though he looks ridiculous holding the arm that is now coated with sap in the air. John most emphatically does not snort at the sight before he grabs the pack and lowers himself to the ground.

“That really smells terrible, you are aware.” John states, and then cocks his head to one side as he shoulders the pack. He makes a show of pinching his nostrils.

“Yeah, it is starting to itch, too.” Sherlock continues to peer at his arm as if it were a new species to be observed and cataloged; completely missing John’s little show. He starts to reach out with the other hand as if to scratch at the sticky fluid.

John swats at his hand. “No, Sherlock. Let’s not make it worse. Come on.” John grasps Sherlock’s clean hand and leads him out towards a pond that they found earlier. Since they have already tested the water, he knows it will be okay to wash with, if perhaps not to drink.

John drops the pack on the ground, the black material contrasting against the yellow-green moss. He unzips it with a flourish and begins digging through it. Sherlock flops down on his rear end and proceeds to pull off his boots. He rolls his trousers up his legs then sticks them into the slightly pink-tinged water. John sets to work cleaning the sap off of Sherlock’s arm, but not before collecting a bit of the nasty stuff in a small container with a lid. He drops the container into the pack where it joins a dozen or so others from the day.

John scrubs at Sherlock’s limb diligently, concentrating on removing the gooey substance without damaging the skin underneath. Sherlock holds perfectly still, John’s face capturing his full attention. John is fully focused on his task, though he does chuckle when Sherlock snakes his head forward and gives him a noisy kiss on the cheek.

“Will you hold still, _captain_?” John grabs at Sherlock’s arm that is almost clean but his fingers slide against baby-smooth skin. John freezes in place and holds Sherlock’s arm completely still, running the fingers on the other hand against the smooth skin. Goosebumps appear on Sherlock’s skin and he leans in towards John. John runs his fingers up the arm and across Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock closes his eyes and hangs his head, sighing with pleasure. John lightly traces the insignia tatoo on Sherlock's shoulder blade.

“John.” Sherlock whispers, his deep voice giving John his own set of goose bumps.

John just continues his ministrations, edging closer to where Sherlock sits. “Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock is pushing his shoulders into John’s touch now. There is a soft breeze around them that makes ripples on the surface of the little pond. “John, my head feels funny.”

John has just pulled his arm back when Sherlock bolts upright only to pounce and push John to his back. When he kisses John, he pushes the entire length of his half-naked, lean body against John’s. John actually moans in surprise when his lover’s already very hard arousal is ground against his groin. John kisses him back, running his hands along Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock responds by kissing him harder, opening John’s mouth with a deeply probing tongue. He is almost panting into John’s mouth.

To John’s dismay it is all over in minutes. Sherlock pushes himself off of John and sits up, his eyes blinking as if he has just woken up from a deep sleep.  “John?” He queries.

John just watches him closely. “Yeah.” He says after a minute.

Sherlock shakes his head a little as if trying to clear cobwebs from his thoughts. “John, we have no need to further explore this particular plant.”

John just hums a non-committal answer, seriously wondering when they can do that again, but properly naked this time.

“I do believe it is an aphrodisiac.” Captain Holmes regards John with a predatory gaze. John grabs the pack up in one smooth movement and takes off in the direction of their campsite. He is laughing like a loon as Sherlock quickly overtakes him and pulls him down into the long grass.


	2. Babies and Burskins

Nights on Bellatrix are six Earth hours long; the days are eighteen. Bellatrix is a moon orbiting a larger, less hospitable planet that has been officially named Lokestra by the IA, though among scientific and exploratory circles it is simply called “Loki.” On some evenings, Loki can be seen from Bellatrix as a flash of scarlet on the horizon. The planet and its moon share a small galaxy with four other planets, several moons, and a single blue star that acts as a sun to them. It is this star that permits Bellatrix its normally pristine sapphire sky. Occasionally, there is heavy rain, though the majority of the days in the two hundred fifty day year are very much like yesterday. There are no seasons to speak of giving the reason as to why John mostly thinks of this planet as “autumn.” He has taken to classifying the many planets they have visited since they last saw the _Neo-Tethys_ as one or more Earth seasons: autumn, winter, spring and summer. Each and every single day is more fascinating than the next. Not only have they discovered new species of plants and animals, but they have had the joy of fully discovering each other. They work together well, each man having tested the other’s strengths and weaknesses; having been in battle side-by-side has forged a link between them such that if the romantic ardor were to ever cool, the bond of strength would remain.

A little under an hour after daybreak finds John making use of the portable shower that stands behind their lodge. The lodge is not as flimsy as a tent, though it is smaller than any permanent residence. It has a wooden frame and metal walls. It was built to Captain Holmes’ exacting standards a few days before they arrived. Inside were one bedroom, a kitchen, and a large open area used as a both a laboratory and sitting room. The lavatory and shower are portable, enabling them to remove most traces of their days here when they finally move on to the next galactic curiosity.

Grounded electricity is not available here, though the previous crew did install a floating generator for those days when the weather is less than cooperative. Those are the days they spend inside testing, cataloging and sometimes finding uses for the fauna they discover. Generally, they only study the animal life but do not interfere with it any more than necessary. Sherlock does most of the testing and dictating. John takes notes and enters the data into their journals and e-books. They have no set timetable in which to work, the only constraint is that they must send weekly reports to the IA via e-book. John does better than that; however, downloading their reports most nights while Sherlock is experimenting with whatever new specimens they brought in that day.

John scrubs his scalp, his strong fingers making short work of the tiny knots that have built up in his really-needs-a-trim hair over the past twenty four hours. The water is starting to cool off. He groans a little and finishes his shower just as the spray turns icy. He steps out onto the ground, his feet making little squishy noises against the moss that is as soft as any bathroom rug. His towel is hanging on a floating hook just at arm level. He grabs it and dries off; finally he is dry but completely naked. He hangs the towel back up and the hook moves above his head, keeping the large green towel above the ground.

John opens the back door of their lodge and enters the sitting room. Sherlock is hunched over a long table covered with flasks and books. He is completely dressed, sapphire blue uniform shirt, black trousers. His long bare toes are curled around the bars of the stool he is perched on. Sherlock’s head is bent so close to the specimen he is presently examining that his nose is almost touching it. His raven curls, also in need of a trim, are sweeping forward over his face; the ones from his forehead are actually touching the table. To John, he is, in a word: breathtaking.

“Good gods, you are gorgeous.” John moves up behind him and lays one palm against Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock makes an irritated sound and then turns his head to see John as he is forcibly pulled out of his concentration. He grins. “Thank you.” Their lips touch for a fraction of a second before Sherlock goes back to the lilac colored petals in his long fingers. Each petal has a single red vein running through the center of it. It is this detail that Sherlock is not only eyeing so closely, but also sketching out on the pad in front of him.

John sits down on the opposite side of the table, pulling his e-book towards himself. Discovering a new message, he opens it and laughs loudly. Ignoring Sherlock’s growl, John reads the message again before he speaks. “It’s from Jared, Sherlock. Binya is expecting.”

Sherlock regards him coolly, an odd-sort of distracted look on his face. “Expecting what?”

John almost falls off of his stool as his entire body shakes with laughter. “A baby, Sherlock. A baby.”

“Oh. Good for them, then.” Sherlock quickly returns to his specimen.

John steps into the kitchen to round up something in the way of breakfast. Sherlock has not quite gotten over the fact that Jared and Binya decided to move back to Earth and start a new life together, rather than stay with them. Well, not _them,_ exactly, more like _Sherlock_. John is fairly certain that Sherlock was truly enjoying his time as a mentor to the younger man. It worked out well, though, because Jared uses the skills Sherlock taught him; he works in a large lab on the home planet. Whatever Sherlock allows to fall out of his mouth, John knows that the other man is quite proud of his young protégé. Sure, he’s disappointed that Jared went off and made his own life, but isn’t that what should happen?

He tosses some veg-bacon in a skillet and cracks two of the blue speckled eggs from the shelf above the tiny stove top. Since they have been here for several weeks, they have had to learn what types of native foods were edible, as their stores were running a bit low.

“Sherlock, we are going to need a delivery if we are planning on staying here much longer.” John raises his voice a little to be heard over the crackling food.

“Uh huh.” Sherlock answers John vaguely, completely disinterested in calling his brother any time soon for any reason whatsoever.

John sets a small plate in front of the busy scientist. Sherlock finally sets it down and munches on a strip of veg-bacon. “John this stuff really is pretty terrible.”

“Well, until you call the Admiral and get us some fresh, you are going to have to lump it.” John chastises, shoveling in his own breakfast.

Sherlock just sighs.  “Well, we have pretty much done what we came here for. Unless you fancy a trip into the mountains, I think we have enough to be going on with.”

“Aye, Captain.” John grins. He knows exactly what comes next.

Sherlock finishes his little meal and steps away from the table, leaving the plate behind. John watches him as he moves about, straightening his papers and packing them away for travel. Sherlock is actually pretty efficient with this part of the job, as long as he is in the mood to do it.

John takes their dishes to the little kitchen and proceeds to do his share of getting things together. He looks about the room and decides everything is to his liking before joining Sherlock out in front of the lodge and a conversation already in progress. Sherlock is reclined on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him, resting on his arms. His e-book is next to him, set up on a little stand so that he can speak directly to the face of his brother.

“…Sherlock, why do you refuse to help me with this?” Admiral Holmes is addressing his little brother in a voice that could almost be described as a warning growl.

“Mycroft, I am done. I have enlightened you time and time again that I just want to do _research_.” Sherlock snorts, looks up at the sky and rolls his eyes. John sits down on a patch of moss beside him.

“Sherlock, you are the only person that I trust with information like this. They need help. I cannot just send an army in there if I have no idea what we are up against!” As always, the Admiral’s frustration levels are growing by the second.

John waits until the silence stretches thin between the siblings. He clears his throat then asks his question quietly. “What is it that you need, My…Admiral?” Though he has been in a relationship with the Admiral’s brother all this time, John still feels uncomfortable calling the higher-ranking officer by his first name. Sherlock sighs loud and dramatically but doesn’t actually say another word.

The Admiral turns his attention on John. “Two Burskins were picked up in a run-down escape pod just outside the orbit of Galaxis Nineteen several days ago. One of Sherlock’s old crew members was able to speak with them. They were on their way to Earth for a spot of holiday, but they received some information from a planet that was involved in a bitter feud between the natives and an Earth mining company about seventy-five years ago.” The Admiral pauses. John attempts to match this information with anything in his head and comes up blank. He shrugs. The Admiral continues.

“What I need from the two of you is to see if there is still life on that planet and how the native peoples are faring since the battle that forced any other humanoid off of it. Allegedly…” and here the Admiral pauses for dramatic effect again. John knows full well that just because the Admiral says _allegedly_ it means _actually_ though not exactly common knowledge for whatever reason the IA makes up. “Allegedly, there were some top-class experiments going on there that involved genetics and creating bodies that you could wear to walk amongst the natives without fear. A few hundred years ago, the American Navajos would have called these soulless bodies _skin walkers_.”

John turns towards Sherlock and shrugs. His actions mean “if you are in, I’m in.”

Sherlock notes John’s reaction before speaking to his brother. “So if you already know that, then why do we need to get involved? I am a _researcher_ now, Mycroft, not a soldier and you know I don’t give a damn about mining. Tell me what you really want.”

“We need to know if there is anything remaining from the experiments, Captain.” The Admiral puts special emphasis on Sherlock’s title, which Sherlock correctly assumes to mean I-gave-it-to-you-you-owe-me. Sherlock knows he is not going to get the full story from his brother. He sighs again.

“What is the name of the planet, Admiral?” Sherlock’s green eyes hold fast to his brother’s dark blue ones through the screen of the e-book.

Admiral Holmes actually cracks a smile as he always does when he gets his little brother to capitulate and do _leg work_ for him. Just before signing off, he says a single word so softly it is almost hard to make out: “Pandora.” 


	3. There and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys get to relax a little and then Admiral Mycroft Holmes happens.

“ _Admiral_.” Captain Holmes sneers at his brother as they step out of the shuttle pod and onto the deck of the _Proto-Tethys_. The Admiral’s crew stands at attention and snaps their salutes crisply when the three men stroll through their ranks towards the entryway. Mycroft and Sherlock take long strides in step with one another, John moves with his own steady march a little behind them. For some odd reason, he finds himself watching the siblings’ movements. Usually seeming so different, from here even their uniforms seem to drape the same way, of course their shirts are different colors: the Admiral wears a distinguished hunter green and naturally, Sherlock’s is sapphire blue. Another difference jumps to John’s notice:  Sherlock’s shirt hangs loose from his trousers, whilst Mycroft’s is tucked in neatly. It has been so long since they have had to dress for anyone other than themselves that he has to keep his eyes from straying to Sherlock’s arse. John figures the Admiral’s clothes are probably pressed within an inch of their lives; of course, that makes him snicker childishly and the sound echoing off of the cool gray corridors draws their attentions to him.

“Ambassador Watson, is everything alright?” Admiral Holmes turns and regards John with a slightly raised, and neatly plucked, eyebrow. Behind Mycroft, Sherlock is actually rolling his eyes.

“Yes. All is satisfactory. Admiral.” He adds quickly. Now that they are back on an IA ship, they have to slip back into formality; at least around the Admiral’s crew. John falls silent as he steps into a lift behind the other two men. There is the whooshing sound of air and the door slides closed in front of them. With a sigh from one and a deep breath from the other, the Holmes brothers lean against the lift. Sherlock takes his typical pose: back pressed against the wall, one knee bent, sole of that boot pressed flat perpendicular to his bum; he hangs his head from his shoulders as if he exhausted. John knows better. He has seen this same posture before.

Mycroft just leans in and crosses his arms over his chest. “Quarters or bridge?” He asks Sherlock pointedly, though he never takes his eyes off of the doors in front of him.

Sherlock lifts his head and pushes the curly fringe of bangs out of his eyes. He shrewdly eyes John before answering “Quarters. Tomorrow, bridge.”

“Yes, after we both see the barber. I assume you have one aboard, Admiral?” John enquires.

“Yes, Ambassador Watson. I will make the appointments for you.” The _ping_ of the lift stopping at their level interrupts him. Sherlock moves out of the lift in two strides and heads down the corridor. “Have a good night and enjoy some down time, John. You two have been roughing it for a while. The water will be piping hot.”

John gives Mycroft a small smile and follows Sherlock. He does not run, though he does step quickly and precisely down the corridor, the only sound now is their footsteps and the faint whine of the lift taking Mycroft to the bridge. He catches up with the captain just as Sherlock puts his broad palm flat against what at first appears to be a solid wall. In an instant, a red lighted pad can be easily discerned from the gray color around it. There is a racially unrecognizable female voice “Welcome home, Captain Holmes” and the same soft _whoosh_ as the door opens and then mutely closes behind them. Sherlock turns towards John, pushing into his personal bubble and forcing him against the wall that is now a wall again. One of Sherlock’s hands is above John’s head and he leans his entire body against his lover. John’s runs his hands over Sherlock’s torso, easily reached by quickly finishing opening Sherlock’s uniform top. They roll their hips together, both thoroughly enjoying the impromptu snog but too exhausted from two days of space travel to do much more.

Finally, they separate, though they do not move away from each other. John rests his arms on Sherlock’s lean hips, gently brushing the tops of the captain’s black trousers with his thumbs. Sherlock sighs and leans his head to John’s shoulder. He mutters something incoherent.

“I’m sorry, I did not understand.” John slips his fingers through the captain’s mad locks. Another sigh slips past the lips of the taller man, gently tickling against John’s jaw. John rests his fingers against Sherlock’s nape; he really can’t help it that they continue to fiddle with those amazing curls.

Sherlock turns his head slightly towards John to make himself clearer. “I don’t want to be here: on _this_ ship, again, John.”

Ah. “I understand. Perhaps we can find something to occupy ourselves for a bit before sleeping?” Sherlock gives him a feline glare, then his eyes widen and his entire expression softens. “Bath?” He asks. John nods the affirmative, and then reconsiders.

“How is that possible?” He remembers full well that there were no actually bathtubs on the captain’s ship, only shower stalls.

Sherlock actually looks happy as he grabs John’s hand and leads him to a door that is apparently the lavatory. Like every other door on the ship, it slides open to let them pass through. “My brother does have his uses.”

John takes a long look around and whistles under his breath. The lavatory is positively huge. There is a gold and white basin that looks suspiciously like real marble from earth, a matching commode and an abso-fucking-lutely huge bathtub. Sherlock flips the golden taps and a torrent of steaming water pours from them. John is almost buzzing with joy at seeing the hot water as he peels of his own uniform. Sometimes he wears a shirt that matches Sherlock’s, though today he chose a warm russet brown to pair with his snug black trousers.

Sherlock does an achingly slow strip tease and John forgets he’s still wearing his boots. He starts to move forward before he realizes he has managed to hobble himself. It is worth the extra few seconds to watch his pale, lean, lover step into the bathtub and then submerse his sinewy self, his eyes closing with pleasure. John shakes out of his daydream and finally manages to get it together to join him. He gets into the tub opposite Sherlock, then copies the other man and rests his head against the cool, smooth material that is most definitely real Earth marble. They stretch their legs out towards the center of the tub; John’s fitting neatly between Sherlock’s. The pressure is comforting; as hard as they work together, it is wonderful to find time to relax with one another.

Steam fogs the room, frosting the gilded mirror over the basin and actually causing dewy drops to cling to their eyelashes. Sherlock gently touches John’s face with his index finger, positively staring at the little drop of moisture that had just clung to the golden fringe of John’s eyelid. John smiles lazily up at his lover in return. Sherlock takes that as an invitation and soon they are kissing slowly and deeply, their bodies gently swaying in the warm water like a forest of kelp in the ocean.   

~***~

_Good Morning, Ambassador Watson._

_Good Morning, Captain Holmes._

John groggily searches for the stupid com-screen with one hand; upon finding it, he flings it across the room and smiles sleepily when it smashes against the far wall. Next to him, Sherlock curls in closer, his face nestled into the crook of John’s arm. John closes his eyes. His breathing starts to level out again and sleep begins to creep back in.  

So of course there’s the sound of the door opening and a rather pompous throat clearing.  And now there is a fully-dressed Admiral standing at the foot of the bed where John is cuddled with said Admiral’s baby brother. Ah yes. It’s going to be one of those days. John’s heart is racing; he is ready for a fight. John has been with Sherlock for quite some time now. He has worked for the Admiral, and was even given his present title by the same man. He has never, until this moment, flaunted his relationship with Sherlock to the Admiral. So, he is a little beside himself at present. He is awfully comfortable, though. 

Sherlock, however, figures it all out by merely opening one eye. “Fuck off.” He growls then expertly burrows back under the blanket. He actually enjoys the feeling of the little vibrations that run through John’s torso when he chuckles to himself at Sherlock’s belligerence. Mycroft sighs. He moves away from the bed and then returns with one of the cushy mustard-yellow armchairs from the sitting area. He plants himself in the chair, crosses his arms, and proceeds to wait them out.

“This is ridiculous.” John states to no one in particular.

“You two cannot simply lounge around all day. You have things to do. Sherlock, you need to choose a new crew…”

Sherlock cuts him off by launching himself upward in the bed so hard it shakes. John is amazed at how quickly his lover went from sleepy/happy/drowsy to alert and ready to kill. He then crosses his arms, unintentionally copying his brother. “No.” He says forcefully to the ceiling.

Oh lords, John thinks. He extracts himself from the covers and climbs out of bed, deciding that if Mycroft is going to ignore the fact he is butt naked, he will, too. He shakes his head as he closes the door of the lavatory behind him.

“No, Mycroft. I will not work with a crew. Not again. All I need is John.” Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed and he is looking at the Admiral as if trying to figure out a thousand ways to skewer him on a sword; his swords or at least one of them, anyway.

“Sherlock, I would not ask it of you if I was not concerned. Now you know that!” Mycroft leans forward towards his brother, quite used to normally having his commands followed to the letter. Except by Sherlock. It’s going to be a long day. “Listen to me, _brother_. Just this once. I have let you walk into danger alone many times; I let you deal with the issues of the Time Gate virtually alone…”

Sherlock growls again. “John was there.”

“Yes, the last time. I do not dispute that fact. Pandora is different, Sherlock. Probably the most unique place I have sent you yet. The majority of your time there will be spent on doing the _research_ that you love so much.” He pauses, carefully noting the expression of listening-but-don’t-want-you-to-know-it plastered on the captain’s face; it reminds Mycroft forcefully of Sherlock at age five. He really does understand Sherlock’s lack of desire to pick another crew after what happened with those whom he thought were loyal to him during the problems with the Time Gate. He refuses to budge on this, though.

“Sherlock, take a small crew. Enough so that there will be back-up for you and John. I cannot give you too many details now; please just trust me.” Mycroft drops his voice an octave, a similar maneuver that the captain uses when he wants something from John. He gently cards his elegant fingers through his dark chestnut coif.

The captain huffs and flails his legs under the heavy brown blanket. “Fine. You allow John to choose the crew.”

“Sherlock that is hardly protocol…”

“Then kindly allow us to borrow a shuttle pod and we will be on our way.”

The Admiral is now stuck between a rock and hard place. He has invited extra beings aboard the _Proto-Tethys_ in the hopes that some of them will meet the captain’s rather high expectations in a crew. Too many plans will be destroyed for this to end before it even begins. “Fine, Sherlock. Tell the Ambassador that he has three days starting tomorrow. I am assuming you will oversee all of his decisions?”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock states with the petulant tone of a teenager who has discovered that he knows everything about the galaxy around him and no one is ever going to tell him otherwise.

“Excellent. I will see you soon. I do have other things to do besides argue with you.” Mycroft returns the armchair to its original place. As he steps through the entryway, he hears “could have fooled me.” He just shakes his head wearily.


	4. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Holmes moves as efficiently on bare feet as he does in his boots. He crouches down like a cougar scanning for prey, his shining verdigris eyes not missing a single detail left on the trail ahead of him.

The top deck of the _Proto-Tethys_ is an open expanse topped with a translucent protection shield that shimmers from the round lights burning around the deck. Beyond the shield, space is a midnight blue blanket full of tiny white pinpricks of light. The deck is flat and metallic gray with a high three-railed safety wall around its perimeter. Ambassador Watson snaps a quick salute to the members of the Admiral’s crew that have gathered here in an attempt to be chosen to accompany on their next expedition.

John gives all of the uniformed crew members-male and female, alien and human-a quick once-over. He quickly repeats some of the points that the captain is looking for in a crew in his mind. Several of the crew assembled here seem to fit that bill, though only some sparring time in the public access room will show John whether he is correct; there he can more accurately gauge strengths and weaknesses.

 He feels the heft of the responsibility on his shoulders, knowing full well that any mistake in trusting a comrade is the difference between life and death when exploring a completely unknown world. He allows his mind to wander back to a picture frozen in his mind of his tall, pale lover spinning a pair of swords in his hands. He considers briefly that learning to depend on someone other than the captain again is going to be difficult.

John slowly walks through the ranks that are divided into two lines of uniformed crew standing at attention. Their uniforms are neatly turned-out, insignia and boots spit-shined as if coming out for the Admiral himself. John clasps his hands behind his back and his body moves purposely, his eyes flicking over the eyes of whatever being he stops in front of. He purposely waits until the being either gives him complete eye contact or looks away. That is his first test and it helps him make his first cut. He casually strides over towards the exit doors and extracts his e-book from his pocket. A single flick of his finger brings up the roster, though he had it memorized earlier this morning. As the beings are standing in alphabetical order, it is not a difficult task to remember who is who. He calls out the names of the beings he desires to test further.

“When I call your name, please step forward. Awaks, Keller, Lestrade, Smith, and Storya.” Four humans: three male, one female and two Alien beings: a female Telom and a male Odal that reminds John more than a little of Tony. John clears his throat and punches the keypad on the lift. The doors open. He hits another button and they remain that way. “If you have been called out, please meet me in Public Access Room” he pauses, double-checks the e-book, “…three. I will see you in ten minutes. The rest of you may return to your duties.” He notes the sea of heads nodding in his direction. “Snap to it.” He growls at them, letting his inner drill instructor out to play. He watches as the crew members that he has picked move past him in double-time, a few of them even offering a small salute in his direction. If nothing else, his day just got more interesting.

Once the deck is empty again, John casts a glance out towards the stars. They are moving back in the direction of his home galaxy, somewhere they have not been in well over a single Earth year. He is surprised that he does not miss it as much as he at first believed he would: perhaps _home_ is more than just a planet or a place, perhaps it’s a person. He shakes his head from the deep thoughts and moves back into teacher/instruction mode. John taps out a quick message to the captain and steps into the lift.

When the doors slide open again to admit John to the Level Three corridor, he finds himself standing in front of a group of people unable to enter. He gives them a nod as he works his way through them to lay his hand, palm down, flat against the door. As always, the doors swish open but this time a light layer of fog rolls out into the corridor. John was prepared for this moment, though he finds that words simply do not do it justice.

Instead of the dark gray walls and black floors that he remembers from the first time he was ever in a PA room, this one is filled with huge vermillion and scarlet plants. The floor is soft, grass and a trail of what appears to be woodchips underneath. A trail opens up in front of him with branches that lead straight on, to the left, and to the right. The ceiling is a dark blue sky complete with heavy clouds as if a thunderstorm is threatening just off the horizon. Lightning actually flashes out in the distance and thunder rumbles overhead, but no rain falls. John takes a deep breath and notes the slightly woody perfume of the air around him. He turns to the crew members crowded behind him, smiles and opens his arms wide.

“We could not quite recreate Pandora, though the captain feels this is close enough to give you an idea of the terrain we will be working on.” He gives them a few moments to glance around themselves. He notes that three of them already look quite comfortable; of those three, two of them, a human male and a Telom female are looking his way as if awaiting further instruction. Good, he thinks to himself. This may not be so difficult, after all. “On my mark, spread out and try to stay alive!” John shouts, barely masking a short burst of laughter. Of all the things that he has done since accepting the Admiral’s job, this is one of his very favorites; well, next to the Admiral’s little brother, that is.

The crew members break and disappear into the massive foliage; in singles and in pairs. He notes that the tall, willowy Telom goes her own way. He is most wary of her but he quickly admonishes himself for feeling that way. Just because one tried to kill him does not mean they all will. He toes off his boots and removes today’s red shirt. He lays his things in a neat bundle nearest where the door would be if he could still see it and then makes his way down the trail, moving silently on bare feet.

It only takes John ten minutes to track down the first two hopefuls: two humans by the name of Paul Tunis and Betty Smith. They are hidden well enough, but as soon as John had Paul wrestled to the ground, Betty made the mistake of thinking that John was incapacitated at that point. John pins the taller, more muscular Paul down with one hand and taps his broad chest with his index finger before lurching upward and flipping over, effectively trapping the petite Betty underneath him. Neither of them heard John padding softly on the soles of his feet and neither of them know that this was the same move Sherlock used all that time ago the first time he ambushed him. It is all good, and they all have a laugh, then Paul and Betty leave the room side-by-side. There are no hurt feelings, because they all know that no matter how good they are, Captain Holmes is a tough taskmaster and he only chooses the best.

~***~

Captain Holmes turns away from the com-screen in their quarters as it goes dark and drops his feet to the floor. He carefully scrutinized each choice that the Ambassador made and finds himself respecting his lover more with each crew member that entered the PA room. John knew that he was going to be watching, though Sherlock could tell that knowledge did not affect any of his decisions. He is mystified over John’s choice in the Telom. He knows that John’s mind is on Sherlock’s safety first, then their mission, and then his own life; though in his mind, the order would be quite the opposite.

“Excellent. “ He says quietly. He will give them a good head start and then he will join in, hopefully after the weaker ones are out of the game. He begins unbuttoning his shirt and toeing his boots off in preparation. He adjusts his trousers, slowly pulling the leather belt from its loops. He leaves their quarters, ready to bring these newbies to task.

~***~

John is closing in on Jason Keller. Jason has made mistakes all along: leaving footprints in the dust at the base of some huge trees, and simply not paying close enough attention to the little details that mark his passing. John crouches on the opposite side of the tree underneath where the short, thin, dark-haired Jason is standing on a branch making no effort to hide. Apparently, Jason sees nothing so he drops down from the branch, his boots slamming hard against the ground. That is John’s cue, and he takes it swiftly, rushing Jason and knocking him to the ground.

This really ticks Jason off and he begins kicking and punching at John. John is not offended, though he takes it as a challenge to keep the younger man down. John pushes against Jason’s shoulders and pulls his head to one side to avoid a right cross to the side of his face. John isn’t quite fast enough, though, as Jason’s left hand smashes against the side of his jaw. John instantly lets go and rolls to his side away from the angry youth.

Jason is furious and he makes it to his feet to stand, shaking as he shouts at John. “You tricked me! You fucking tricked me! I am a com-engineer, not a fucking trail master! What kind of game is this? Fuck you and fuck Captain Holmes!” John sets his mouth in a hard, thin line and waits for Jason to leave. Thankfully, as the young man approaches the entrance, the doors swish open and a pair of the largest Gribs that John has ever seen each lay one huge, seven-fingered hand on Jason’s shoulders. Yeah, not an escort he would desire in a rage, either. Hopefully, they will escort him all the way off of the _Proto-Tethys_ and John won’t have to deal with him again.

John rubs at his jaw just as a sudden movement beyond a stand of wide, flat amethyst leaves catches his eye. He turns his head in the direction of the movement only to be practically flattened by a hyper-actively tentacle-waving, very excited Odal. The pale green being is making snorting noises through his nasal tentacle and waving two of the long, fleshy arms from the sides of his body in the air in triumph as the remainder of them hold John to the ground.

Of course, John cannot help but laugh. Ambushed by an Odal! Odals are the one race notoriously well-known for being unable to silence themselves, even at the best of times. He raises one of his hands in the air and the Odal gives him a rather sticky high-five of sorts and then pushes himself backward to allow John to sit up.

“Hey, George!” George trumpets loudly, his huge blue eyes giving John the joyful impression of a huge, smushy puppy; well, one that’s also pale green in color, though John considers that George probably would not mind the analogy.

“Want to go along with me and see if we can track down that Telom and the other guy?” George gives a long whistle whilst waving his tentacles about himself. John takes that as the affirmative and they move off deeper into the brush. The Odal is noisy as he crashes through the foliage: occasionally one of his suckers gets stuck to a leaf or a branch, ripping it to shreds with a noise that seems to echo around the virtual world of the PA room. John knows better than to attempt to mask the sound and actually uses it to his benefit. As they move over a small rise, they look out over a field of greenish-blue vines. The last remaining human crew member that John chose this morning is seated just below one of the vines, only his hands and face barely visible among the dark plants. The Telom is nowhere in sight.

The sky above them has darkened and the sound of the thunder is increasing by tens of decibels. For a moment, John can actually believe they are on another planet when the terra firma beneath his feet vibrates from the rolling thunder. He gives George a look and points out towards his right side, cocking his head towards the left. George makes a soft hooting noise and slides in the direction John pointed. John moves back into the foliage at his back and proceeds around the edge of the field, taking caution with each step not to bend a blade of grass or snap a twig.

Greg Lestrade is probably five centimeters taller than Captain Holmes and of a similar build. His chest is wider and his arms are more fully muscled. His hair is dark brown, cut into military neatness and showing just a hint of grey at the temples. His dark brown eyes scan the area methodically as if he has experience in this arena.

John can see all of these details as he carefully creeps up the vine beside where Greg is seated. The vine is a deep green and the way the leaves grow out of it makes excellent steps, though not easy to navigate when one is hunched over the way John is at this point. John strains his ears, listening for any sound of George crashing through the field too soon. So far there’s no sign of the Odal. John slowly makes his way around the vine until he is standing just behind Greg’s right shoulder where he can make out his tattooed insignia against the tan bare skin. John slows down his inhalations and carefully reaches out to lay a hand on Greg’s shoulder.

Greg jumps but does not cry out. Instead, he lets out a quick roundhouse that John ducks under. John grabs Greg’s leg out of midair, yanking the other man to the ground. Greg falls hard with a thump, though he will only bruise his pride.

“Gotcha!” John grins down at him as he offers his hand. Greg takes it and stands beside John, knocking the dust off of the seat of his trousers. “Excellent hiding place, mate.”

“Apparently not, if you found me so quickly!” Greg snorts and gives John a rather forcefully shake of the shoulder.

John holds out his hand and the two men shake. “John Watson.”

“Greg Lestrade, though I already know who you are: one half of the Captain Holmes’ legend.” Greg offers, showing a full set of pearly whites; little wrinkles fan about his eyes when he smiles.

“Ha! You haven’t been around much, then!” John gives a little chuckle.

“Yeah, got to tell you, mate, the stories spinning down on Earth about your little adventure with the Time Gate talked me into signing up for space duty.”

John actually blushes. He had no idea. Apparently while they have been out researching new plants and animals all over the known and not so well known galaxies that their little adventure has made itself known on their home planet.

Greg pats him on the shoulder again. His palms and the underside of his fingers are rather rough. John correctly pins him as a working man. “Don’t be embarrassed, Ambassador, it’s a great thing you two did; and if it gets more of us out here, it can’t be all that bad, right?”

John wonders for a second who Greg is trying to convince, John or himself, but before he can answer George comes hooting and snorting up to them. John introduces them and watches Greg’s eyebrows attempt to creep up to his hairline. It is pretty obvious that he’s never met an Odal before. John gives them a moment to get as acquainted as possible before asking if they are ready to go find the last crew member. Greg nods yes and George hoots and smacks his tentacles appreciatively. The three of them wind between the enormous vines back to the trail, John considering that perhaps the majority of the team has already been made.

~***~

Captain Holmes moves as efficiently on bare feet as he does in his boots. He crouches down like a cougar scanning for prey, his shining verdigris eyes not missing a single detail left on the trail ahead of him. He picks up a small handful of the woodchips and holds them up to his nose, taking in the slightly moldy, woodsy smell alongside that of his lover that he would recognize anywhere. Like dogs and cats, he knows humans leave their own traces from the pads of bare feet. He silently follows the trail, looks around the area where John caught up with the first hopeful; Sherlock reads the signs of the skirmish as if they spelled out what happened. He notes with some amusement that it seems John was surprised by an Odal, though he doesn’t think less of his lover for that reason—he has always been friendly with the race as they have always managed to surprise even him with their abilities on and off of a ship.

Sherlock moves through the field of vines, his long legs making short work of the distance. Again he notices with satisfaction that John seems to have won the skirmish, though he concedes that the vines were an excellent hiding place and one that he would have used if necessary. He runs one hand across the smooth skin of the vine, noting its approximation of the real thing. As much as he would never admit it, he is actually starting to look forward to Mycroft’s expedition.

The captain forges on ahead, the ground beneath his feet trembling with the rumble of thunder. His program is working flawlessly. He is quietly enjoying the success of this endeavor when something heavy lands on his back and he finds himself flat on the ground.


	5. Love in an Elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ups and downs of a new mission.

He blinks against the little stabbing pinpricks of white light there in his eyeballs, for a moment he is simply floating away, nothing but a mind against a thunder and lightning filled gray backdrop. Captain Holmes attempts to move his arms a bit when he discovers there is a weight on his back holding him still in the dirt. He stills, gently moving every muscle that he is capable of moving against the weight of his attacker. He closes his eyes and brings to the front of his memory all of the beings who are currently in the PA. He knows where John, Greg and George the Odal are…they are out looking for the Telom female…the Telom who just happens to have her skinny arse planted in the middle of Sherlock’s spine.

This will never do.

Ever so slowly, the captain tenses his back and arms. He gives absolutely no warning when he pushes upward from the ground. The Telom does not fall so much as take a couple of huge steps off of Sherlock’s bare back. In the same amount of time he takes to get on his feet she merely steps to the side and assumes a fighting position; the captain has spun around to face her and landed a direct hit on her left shoulder. She winces and rubs the ache with long, pale gold fingers. The captain merely dances back on his toes as she rushes him. He knows this game, though, and instead of stepping to the side as she expects, he actually bends at the waist and allows her momentum to carry her over his shoulder to land hard on the ground where she hits with a rather undignified grunt. 

She has not yet had enough. The Telom is almost instantly back on her feet, both of her long arms swinging out in an attempt to catch the captain around the middle and bring him down, because the only way to actually win this game is to pin down your opponent. Sherlock turns once more to face her and bides his time, waiting patiently for her to give him an opening. Just as she attempts to rush him for the second time, three pairs of tentacles grasp her around the waist and hold her fast. She actually growls and attempts to dislodge them to no avail. Long strands of her gold and white hair have slipped out of their bonds and now frame her face. Her pale golden cheeks are now suffused with rose and her eyes glint with malice.

John and Greg move up beside George quickly. The Telom finally stops struggling and gives Sherlock a serious icy blue glare. He just smiles and asks George to let her go. George hoots softly as if reprimanded and slithers backwards a pace.

“Well, now that we are all here, let’s have some real fun.” John looks around at each face. There is a nice bruise welling up on Sherlock’s chest, though it is nothing to be overly concerned with. He nods to himself and then waits for Sherlock to step in. The captain, however, has left this entire project up to John and he is going to allow him to finish it. “Alright then,” John states to the other four beings in turn. “Let’s split up into two teams. You three will be against us.” John gazes directly into Sherlock’s eyes as he waves a hand between the two of them. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and his face sets up a wall of expression against the mischievous grin attempting to crack it.

“You three have ten minutes. Don’t disappoint me.” John states with authority. Greg and the Telom give each a surprised look and take off through the dense brush. George snorts loudly and follows them, trying hard to keep up in his own fashion. John then turns to his lover. “Are we going to spar or do you have something else in mind?”

“You said ten minutes, right?” Sherlock leans down into John’s personal space.

“Aye.” John says, tilting his head slightly to allow his eyes to be pulled into the tractor beam of the glinting green ones a few centimeters above his head.

“Let us give them an hour.” The captain whispers as he captures John’s mouth with his own. John has not yet come down from the adrenaline rush of the hunt-and-pin game he has been playing all afternoon and so when their mouths crash against each other it is with a primal force that his entire body answers Sherlock’s questing lips. The captain walks backward until he hits the wall and somehow manages to get his hand on the pad properly to open the door. John’s brain barely registers the sound of it opening and then they are moving down the corridor; finally breaking away from each other long enough to step into the lift. Sherlock punches several of the buttons and the machine stops. He is pulling John into his body with one hand and simultaneously reaching out to yank a tiny camera from the ceiling of the lift while standing on tip toe.

John looks up from his careful tongue bathing of Sherlock’s collar bones and a short, breathy giggle escapes him before he can catch it. The captain turns his head back to his lover at the same time he smashes the silvery machine against the floor. He raises his arms to effectively cage in John’s head and drops his mouth to John’s neck. With both of them already half naked, the whole process is going along quite swimmingly. Two grown men are arching their backs and grinding their hips tightly against one another when the captain’s e-book gives a rather nastily intruding chirp against his hip. Sherlock digs it out of his trousers, barely glances at it to see it is his brother and promptly drops it the floor. It does not break, though it does make a rather pathetic _thud_ against the tile.

John now has both hands around Sherlock’s neck; his fingers raking through the curls at his nape. John is all but standing on his toes when Sherlock lifts him up by placing both of his broad hands under John’s rear end and pulling. They settle with one of John’s legs dangling and the other braced against Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock is growling into John’s ear as he makes tiny nips up his neck and under his jaw. They continue to grind together until John makes use of one hand to undo both of their trouser buttons. Now they are rubbing, grinding, pressing their erections together; both men growling and panting; one of John’s hands wrapped around both of them and the other clutching Sherlock’s shoulder for balance. It is an incredibly complicated position though the two of them seem to be carrying it off without a hitch.

“I am going to come, John.” Sherlock is almost bent in half as he is carrying most of their combined body weight. His voice is a deep crush of velvet against the side of John’s face.

“Aye captain, my captain.” John whispers into the captain’s ear before giving it a good swipe with his tongue. He rocks harder against his lover, using the wall for leverage.

The force of their simultaneous release is enough to sway them both off balance, though Sherlock manages to only slide down to the floor rather than fall. After a few moments, the material of their trousers has wicked away the majority of their bliss and they both lean against the wall of the lift, panting and catching their breath. John wipes sweat from his forehead just as Sherlock’s e-book plaintively complains again. The captain sighs and leans himself forward to grab at the machine. He stabs at the screen and John cannot help the fact that he is completely hypnotized with the way the sweat rolling down Sherlock’s back reflects the soft blue light of the lift; the way the pale skin is faintly pink and the muscles still taut from the exertion of holding them both up.

“God, you are lovely.” John mutters then closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the rough gray wall. He has to close them against the sharp focus that everything around him seems to have taken on. The captain seems to be immune to the compliments his lover continuously pays him, though John can see the truth when those pale cheeks redden over like a rose blooming in the springtime. John just smiles.

Sherlock remains seated on the floor of the lift for a few minutes more, punching at the screen of his e-book. John opens his eyes and scoots over in order to read the prissy message that the captain has just sent to the Admiral. John snickers.

_I will fix the camera, Admiral. Next time we will even allow you to watch._

~***~

Ambassador Watson strides between the rows of seats in the meeting hall with an even, ground-covering gait. He carries a stack of old-fashioned paper files with his e-book on top. When he gets to the front of the room, he places the files on the desk in a pile and lays his e-book against a rectangular-shaped pad and taps the screen. Behind him there is a click that echoes around the room. George, Greg, the Telom whose first name John does not remember, and the Holmes brothers are seated in the first row of twelve that line the majority of the hall. The lights above the gallery begin to go down so that only the podium and John’s table are illuminated.

“Are we expecting anyone else?” John pointedly requests of the Admiral.

Mycroft answers him with an almost silent reminder that their formal titles need to be preserved. “No, Ambassador.”

John knows full well his mistake, though he brushes it off and continues. He taps the screen of his e-book and a map of the galaxy opens up in glowing three dimensions between himself and his little class. He points at the Earth and then moves in the direction of the star Alpha Centauri A, then makes a claw to literally reach into the hologram and zoom into a larger version of the star and its accompanying moons and planets.

“This is the gas giant known as Polyphemus.” John zooms in a huge red planet. Its surface is a violent red and yellow, proving its inability to sustain life other than a few strains of bacteria. The crew members watch as the planet orbits lazily, several moons spinning alongside it. John presses against one of them with his index finger and then only it remains in the map. “This is Pandora.” He allows the moon to orbit so that his class gets a good look at its geological features: mountain ranges, rivers, oceans, and even some dark splotches that stand out like fungus on a white-barked tree. John taps against what seems to be mountain ranges and does not say a word when he hears the Telom gasp and the Odal give a soft hoot of surprise.

Directly in front of them are mountains that seem to be rooted to nothing except each other. There are long strands of vines and possibly rope bridges between them.

“Yes, you are seeing it correctly. These are the floating mountains.” John taps the map again and continues to show the crew members various key points. When he gets to one of the black splotches, he presses the pause button on his e-book to stop the program. “Pay attention now. This is why we are going out there.” He says as he taps on the spot again. It gets bigger but does not gain any detail. He looks at every single face until he sees comprehension dawn on them. He gives the captain a nod and Sherlock rises to his feet. John moves to take his place.

Captain Holmes points at the big area of nothing on the map. He uses his fingers to turn it on its axis, then spins it around and then reverses it. It does not change. He reaches over and turns off John’s e-book, then faces the crew, grasping his hands behind his back. Without preamble, he says in a clear, rich baritone that would be clearly understood by even some being sitting in the very back corners of the gallery:

“Pandora is dying.”


	6. Flip Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you should see me walking
> 
> Through your dreams at night
> 
> Would you please direct me
> 
> Where I ought to be

The silence in the room is deep, but not overwhelming. The only person who really understands the severity of the captain’s statement is the Admiral, and that is only because he has brushed up on the entire subject prior to speaking to his brother about it. He is not concerned because he is some kind of philanthropist; he is concerned about the moon because he was hoping to renew some type of business negotiations there, if not mining perhaps something else. So far, he has given Sherlock all of the information that he has managed to glean about the moon, the mining, and the research being done there. It really is not much to be going on with, though he does have some hopes that with his brother’s penchant for thorough research more will be added in the near future.

Mycroft completely misses the rest of the meeting and finds himself alone in the gallery. John has collected his files and turned all of the lights down, save for the safety lights that line the aisle up to the back of the room. He takes in his surroundings but does not get up. He considers the dangers that he is sending this small crew into on this mission, weighing the pros and cons. There is not a single doubt in his mind that his brother and his partner are perfectly capable of protecting themselves from dangers they can _see_ , though he has not spent much time thinking about the dangers that they may be unaware of. For a second, the idea that this whole thing might be a mistake crosses his mind. He stews on, turns the problem over in his mind and examines it from several angles. From what he understands of the information he has been presented with, the scientific program from the original Pandora mission was a failure. The scientists were never able to fully integrate with the native people and therefore nothing ever became of it. Somewhere along the line there had been wars between the indigenous humanoids and the miners; the native beings won the first war but not the second one. The mines that had grown about the terrain of the planet had stripped it of more than the mineral they had been designed to recover. Mycroft was forced to guess about the history of Pandora after this point, as there is nothing further in his research. There is really only one thing that may be pertinent, though perhaps it will be better if he allows Sherlock to figure that out on his own. The last time he attempted to force his brother’s attention to a small detail on a project almost caused a disaster for all involved. He shakes his head mutely, no, it is better to wait and see if this minor detail turns out to be something consequential. Besides, there is absolutely no way of knowing if the now seven and one half decades old equipment is still in any type of working condition.

With his mind made up, Admiral Holmes finally stands, brushing his hands against the smooth material of his black trousers and adjusting his hunter green shirt by grasping at the tight collar. Even off duty, the admiral prefers to look professionally turned out. The only indication that he is tired is the hand that cards through the dark ginger waves on the back of his head. He turns smartly on his heels and steps up through the gallery, his boots marking almost no sound of his passing against the thick pile of the dark blue-grey carpet.

The door slides open three steps before he gets to it. He walks up the corridor to the lift. Mycroft presses the buttons, debating on going to the restaurant, the café or just to his room to grab a bite and rest for a few hours. He decides that the last thing he needs to see is John and Sherlock mooning over each other like lovesick teenagers and stabs at the button for his level hard enough to make the first knuckle in his finger pop. He frowns, his neat eyebrows meeting in a little upside-down V as he glares at the now lit-up pad. Of course, it does not make any remarks of any type so he thrusts his hand into his almost-invisible pocket and whips out his e-book. He taps at the screen, putting in his order for dinner and maybe a bottle of wine. Perhaps a long bath, too. He still has several orders to be put into place and carried out by his crew before he can send the captain and his small group on their way.

The lift stops and Mycroft is through the doors before they completely open. He shoves his e-book back into his trousers with one hand and quickly begins snapping open the buttons on his shirt with the other. He stops at his door and lays his palm against the invisible pad. Again, the door slides open but this time he waits until it opens the entire way as that allows the lights to come to life.

He moves into his sitting room, taking in the blue armchairs and the burnt sienna color of the low table between them. Precisely in the center of the table is a tall, slender silver candlestick complete with a solid white candle. Mycroft reaches to the top of a bookcase that matches the table and grasps a long, black lighter. He flicks it twice and a dancing flame appears at the end of it which he then uses to light the candle. He watches the flickering flame for a moment as it changes from the normal red and orange to a deep blue color that reminds him of his brother’s uniform shirts. Satisfied that everything is in order, he opens the door to his study.

The room is a disaster. Books have been plucked from the shelves that surround the narrow walls and lay about the floor in an undignified heap. His files have been ruthlessly stripped from their cabinet and thrown in a pile behind the door. He knows before he ever even touches them exactly what will be missing. Someone has gone through his things and they damn well wanted to make sure that he knew about it. He gives a deep sigh and begins cleaning up the mess.

His books all seem to be alright, none of them are torn, though many now have annoyingly creased pages; he slides them back into place on the shelves. At this point, they are not in any kind of order, though he will remedy that situation later. The files are pretty much destroyed so he simply dumps them in the handy copper waste basket close to the huge desk in the center of the room. That is when he notices that his favorite oxblood leather chair has been slashed, stuffing pouring from the slim and deep cuts like blood from a wound. He does not sigh this time, though a deep growl rumbles from his throat as he now runs both hands through his hair. It ceased being a presentable thing after the first few minutes, now the thinning strands are all but standing up from his scalp.

His door chimes to announce the presence of his meal so he turns away from the mess, snaps his fingers to turn off the lights in the study, and with a calm demeanor he truly does not feel, gently closes the door. When he accepts his meal from the Odal waitress, he even gives her a smile and a polite thank you. He carries the silver tray and bottle of wine to his small, circular dining table and sets it down. He starts to enter the kitchen then stops and picks up the still burning candle, setting it down on the dining table. He does not turn on any other lights while he takes his time eating the boiled and buttered mollusks on his plate. Anyone looking in on him would see a quiet man eating slowly, seeming to be lost in thought. Part of that would be true, though his thoughts are anything but calm. Instead they are whirring through his mind, tiny details jumping out at him. Within seconds, he knows how he is going to punish the being that dared enter his own personal space, provided that he can catch them; he considers that they may no longer be on board the _Proto-Tethys_ , which, depending on how much of the research that they stole from him they actually understand, is completely to be expected.

~***~

John leans back in his rather comfortable chair and rests the pint of ale on his knee.  Greg sits opposite him at the square table in the corner of the almost deserted restaurant. There is not a band playing tonight, instead some quiet classical music is pouring from the speakers set up around the room. Besides Greg and himself, only George and Sherlock are present. The Telom stayed long enough to eat a bowl of long, pale, noodle-like things that John is only going to tell himself were actually noodles and not actually moving because he had already imbibed a pint and that was all he was going to even think about on that subject.

George is quietly looking about the dining room with a one hundred being capacity, his huge eyes appearing even larger in the dim light. Two of his sucker-ended tentacles are wrapped around a wide-mouthed glass of deep yellow liquid with a third being used apparently as a straw to drink the stuff. If anything, the Odal is quite polite and John has not heard a single sound from the alien the entire evening.

Greg on the other hand has been talking since they sat down. He tells them all about his job down on Earth as a peace keeper and how after his oldest daughter was killed in an accident that his marriage went downhill and his wife finally left. At some point, Sherlock stopped listening but remained because he wanted to be near John. He finally had enough after a while and wandered up towards the sound system to check into the music selection.

Greg is finally taking a breather when Sherlock returns to the table. He does not return to his chair, however, he remains standing next to John with one hand on John’s shoulder. They are all still in their uniforms, though tops have been unbuttoned for comfort. Greg’s warm brown eyes travel from the long fingers gently grasping John’s shoulder up to the face of Captain Holmes who is regarding him with a very intense gaze that clearly and politely says _mine_. He gives John a quiet smile, takes a sip of his pint and asks with confidence and without malice of any kind “How long have you been together?”

John starts to answer but Sherlock cuts him off. “Long enough.” He is abrupt though John does not detect any malevolence in his lover’s answer. He just smiles at Greg and Greg gives them a little nod. “It’s all good.” Greg smiles back and excuses himself. George gives a little chirp, blinks his eyes and follows Greg from the restaurant. When John finally turns to look up at Sherlock, he can see the green irises are smoldering embers.

“Sherlock.” The captain’s eyes never leave Greg’s retreating back. If he had his throwing stars, John is pretty sure there would be one firmly lodged between Greg’s shoulder blades by this point. He pushes Sherlock’s hand off of his shoulder and stands up on the toes of his boots to look Sherlock directly in the face as best he can. He puts a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and interrupts his thought pattern by pulling downward in a way that short, bossy people can do very well when they want something.

“Captain.” John snarls. Sherlock blinks as if he has just come back to himself.

“Yes, John.” He does not seem to want to acknowledge what is happening.

“Sherlock, I know it’s been a while since you had to share me with other people, but that was, well, ridiculous.” John’s gaze is fierce and he refuses to allow Sherlock to get out of it.

“John he was checking you out.” Sherlock pouts.

“Really, Sherlock?” John drops his hands to his lover’s trim waist.

Sherlock is silent, giving John the chance to finally hear the music playing behind them. He knows that he has to get the captain’s mind going in another direction. “Dance with me?” He asks, expecting to be turned down. Instead, the captain places both hands on John’s bum and pulls him closer. “Alright.” He whispers in a husky voice directly into John’s ear that sends a line of desire directly down his spine.

John does not reply, though he grips Sherlock’s hand and leads him to the dark dance floor. He drapes an arm across Sherlock’s waist and the other on his shoulder. Sherlock mirrors John and they slowly circle about the dance floor. The captain keeps his eyes locked on his lover’s face, even as his hands pull him closer. As always, his shirt is mostly unbuttoned and John can feel the heat and smell his musky scent as they move together. Neither man closes his eyes; for a few moments they are whisked away on the lyrics of an old song.

_I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me_

_Or am I even in its mind at all…_

Tonight they kiss passionately, deeply and without any thought to time. Sherlock’s hand gently strokes the back of John’s neck and he rolls his shoulders. John changes his grip from Sherlock’s waist to having both hands on his narrow hips as he sways to the changing tempo. The only sounds now are from the speakers and the soft sounds the two lovers make between them. Just as in all they do together, they seem to blend into one unit, in peace and in battle. At some point, Sherlock gives John a little impromptu spin and pulls him back in so that John’s back is to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock's hands rest over John's, carefully leading as their hips sway in time with one another. The captain is leaning down so that his kiss-swollen lips are brushing the shell of John’s ear. He sings along with the lyrics, his voice impossibly lower and deeper than John has ever heard it. It almost ceases to be a human voice and more of a throaty purr.

_If you should see me walking_

_Through your dreams at night_

_Would you please direct me_

_Where I ought to be_

When the song finally begins to taper off, John is of half a mind to simply sweep the captain off his feet and have him right there against the rust-colored tiles. Instead, they pull together like a pair of opposite-ended magnets; synchronicity when their lips crash in unison with the cymbal and drums in the music overhead.

The Admiral turns away from the door where he has been watching his baby brother. The swell of something that cannot be named in his chest threatens to completely disarm him. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him, the least of which is pride in the younger man. He thinks of the way that Sherlock spit the word _partner_ back at him all that time ago. He will never bring it up, however, this thing between he and John is too precious. Mycroft hopes it will survive their next mission. He sighs and covers his eyes with one hand. Instead of going in and explaining about the break-in and ransacked room, he decides he will take care of his own problems; some things are just too fine, too rare, too…for once, the Admiral does not have the words to describe it; just too _whole_ to fracture it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song quoted here is Crystal Ball (C) Styx. I'm hoping for a bit of foreshadowing.


	7. Flashing Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without any warning, Captain Holmes pulls both swords from their resting places and flashes them over his head. The ultra-sharp blades dramatically catch the weak rays of light from the lamp in the corner and reflect it across the dark gray carpet

John claws into consciousness feeling like he is being smothered under the largest electric blanket known to human kind kicked up to its highest degree. When he finally opens his eyes, he is met with a face full of raucous raven curls and the feeling of a blistering hot, oh so naked, body stretched out over his own. There is a small pool of sweat between them where they are fully in contact and dripping down between his shoulder blades. He takes in a deep breath through his nose and the rise of his chest is greeted by an irritated grunt from the sleeping captain. A rather broad hand smacks weakly against John’s rib cage.

“Dun wanna get up.” Sherlock’s voice vibrates against John’s side and he chuckles. He slowly caresses the captain’s bare back, giving him the time that he needs to get himself back online. This then, is one of John’s favorite times of the day: those things that only he gets to see such as this strong, overbearing, hard driving personality completely relaxed and vulnerable. John sighs and decides that staying put really is not such a bad idea after all. He relaxes back into the lull caused by the deep breathing of his lover.

A hateful burst of red light forces him to open his eyes again. The digital calendar is flashing across the walls, though for all of that all John notices is the way the scarlet digits flash across the captain’s smoothly muscled torso. He lightly traces them with his index finger, becoming quite amused as each pass causes goose pimples to appear on Sherlock’s warm skin; he is paying absolutely no attention whatsoever to what the digits and letters actually spell out. Finally, with a huff and some kind of maneuver that only pulls him upward on John’s chest instead of over and off of it, Sherlock is intently staring John right in the face.

John will never fail to be amazed at the depths in those jade oceans of intense life. Even if he did not know that there was something else in Sherlock’s heritage, he would certainly believe it when he felt himself spiraling out of control when all of the captain’s attention is fully focused on him. In a passing thought he remembers the haughty expression on the captain’s face the first time they met; he vaguely wonders if Sherlock ever considers these things.

They give it a few moments more and allow their lips to just graze against one another’s mouths. In no time at all, they are lying there with the sheets pooled around them, forehead to forehead; neither man possessing the will to move from this cocoon of joy. Sherlock’s body radiates heat and John’s accepts it; the moon reflecting the sun’s glory back to it. For two men who can be so prone to action, they seem to enjoy basking in each other’s embrace just as much.

The captain seems to hear the chime an instant before John does. He pushes himself straight up on his arms, lands a kiss directly on John’s forehead and is bounding out of the bed before John can fully assess the situation. Of course, that does not stop him from enjoying the view of Sherlock’s back field in motion as the naked captain strolls out of the bedroom, hips swaying as he pads to the door of their quarters like a panther stalking his next meal. John makes up his mind that next time they are naked together he is licking those kidney dimples just for the hell of it, and to make Sherlock squirm.

John closes his eyes against the muffled voices filtering through the open bedroom door. When he realizes that it is not Mycroft, he braces himself and pulls on his trousers. He steps out into the sitting room and is met with a rather interesting sight.

The captain stands with his bare backside in John’s direction. Amazingly, he is completely relaxed which John can see clearly from the lack of tension in his body. The Telom, Greg and George are all facing Sherlock. The Telom, whose name, Una, finally registers in John’s mind, is staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. George is covering his huge eyes with six tentacles and a mild flush of deep red is apparent against his light green skin. Greg, however, is standing completely still with his hands on his hips. The most amazing thing is that he is looking Sherlock _straight in the face_ without any hint of embarrassment or amusement on his features. John can almost see a tether between the green eyes and the brown ones. He spins on the balls of his feet to go and snatch Sherlock’s trousers from the bedroom floor and steps up behind him, clearing his throat.

Sherlock never turns around, instead says calmly “Yes, Ambassador.” John has never heard his title sound more like _dear_ in his life but he doesn’t push it, merely reaching around Sherlock and handing the naked man his trousers. Sherlock continues his conversation with Greg while at the same time stepping into the legs and pulling them up around his waist like this sort of thing happens every single day. Well, for them it does, though John is less than thrilled when the captain streaks in front of his crew. He waits for a lull in the conversation as he hears the soft rustle of the black material settle itself around the contours of the captain’s legs and hips. He has to bite back a groan.

Una finally takes her eyes from her contemplation of the gray ceiling. “Captain, with your permission we may load the shuttle? If we get moving we should be on Pandora in four hours.” She obligingly snaps her well-polished boot heels together; the clicking sound is a firm stop at the end of her statement. Her golden eyes take in every movement of Sherlock’s face before scanning John’s as well. She nods her head almost to herself as if she has just made up her mind about something. Her whole demeanor relaxes just the slightest. Her pale lilac uniform shirt is loose about her torso and the material seems to shimmer against the light gold of her skin.

“Yes, Engineer Storya, go ahead. Alert me when things are ready. George, you may go along with her.” Una snaps the crisp salute of those fresh from the Academy and George raises a tentacle in the same motion. Sherlock gives them a short dip of the head and they turn and leave the room. John can hear the short snorty squeak of an excited Odal as the door swishes shut behind them.

“Damn, that girl is wound so tight I’ll bet she is….” Greg begins.

John is not about to let bad blood start between the crew members before they even get off the Admiral’s ship. He sets his face in its best imitation of a tenacious bulldog and says simply “Don’t.”

Greg stands down and his mouth snaps shut so hard his jaw creaks. Following John’s line of sight, he takes a seat in one of the armchairs. Sherlock shares the authority with ease, not speaking until John has left the room to finish dressing.

The captain has not moved. He crosses his arms about his chest. “You are our weapons expert, Lestrade. Tell me what your plans are.”

In the dim light of the single lamp burning in the sitting room, Greg outlines his ideas for protecting them while they are on the terra firma of Pandora. He goes into great detail about caliber of projectiles and the newest types of guns they are using on Earth. Sherlock does not interrupt him once. When Greg finishes, he waits silently, though he is unsure what he is waiting for, watching Sherlock’s face for anything that tells him he is on the right track.

“Those are useful ideas, Lestrade--for Earth. Pandora has an atmosphere that is denser due to a higher percentage of Xenon present. If you even attempt to operate those weapons designed for use with Earth’s thinner, more Nitrogen rich atmosphere one of two things will happen: one, they will not fire at all or two, you will have nothing but a fireball in your hands.”

For a second, Greg is taken aback and debates whether he should be insulted. Being the good-natured man that he is, however, he takes the lesson at face value. Without waiting for a response, Sherlock is moving towards a long wooden box propped up against one of the pair of mostly empty bookcases beside the door. He lays the box across the empty chair and slowly works the lid open. Greg can see a flash of silver and a little sliver of excitement seats itself at the base of his spine. He has heard and even read about this; now he finally gets to see it.

Without any warning, Captain Holmes pulls both swords from their resting places and flashes them over his head. The ultra-sharp blades dramatically catch the weak rays of light from the lamp in the corner and reflect it across the dark gray carpet. It reminds Greg of the time he and his little brother played with a hand mirror standing in the windows of his boyhood home. Sherlock spins across the floor, one long blade flicking clockwise and one counterclockwise as his supple wrists work them in circles. The muscles on his arms, biceps and across his chest are tight and his brows are knit together in concentration. His eyes are closed and he looks to be dancing. Greg is almost hypnotized by the interplay between muscle and bone across the captain’s back and shoulders. As the captain moves into another spin, the blades begin to glow with the faintest blue light that is unlike anything Greg has ever seen before. The captain raises the swords above his head one more time just as John returns, fully dressed.

John quickly analyzes the situation and knows instantly that Sherlock is in the mood for some impressive dramatics. He moves forward towards the blades at the same time Sherlock’s eyes snap open. In a fraction of a second John sees recognition and he spins on his boot heels, ducking his head and bending down slightly at the knees.  He feels the air crackle as a blade falls to either side of his body. He freezes in place and raises his head to check on Greg’s reaction to their little performance, being able to see clearly over Sherlock’s shoulders that are bent forward towards him. Sherlock’s respirations are only slightly faster than normal, though the look in his eye is both cold as steel and warmly approving of John’s instant appraisal of what was going on.

Greg’s face is positively priceless. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth is open and his eyes are as wide as a child’s on Christmas Day. John laughs, absolutely thrilled with the outcome. Since the battle for the Time Gate, the two of them have spent countless hours practicing. John will never be as good with a single sword as Sherlock is with both of his, but he feels he can keep up when he needs to. Alone, Sherlock is a match for just about anything he comes up against, as long as he can stay on his feet; together, they are a fierce wall of flashing blades and steely strength.


	8. Welcome Party

The shuttlecraft is cramped and tight. Una, Greg, and the Captain are all rather tall and the three of them find themselves sitting in low seats with their collective knees almost to their ears. George, being a member of a rather soft-boned race, has managed to practically ooze himself into two seats, bracing himself against the backs of them with a pair of tentacles. John is probably the most comfortable of them all, one leg crossed over the other in front of him. He is reading over a topographical map of Pandora, getting a feel for the new terrain they will soon be traipsing. No one is talking much and as a result, the three hour ride from the _Proto-Tethys_ to their drop zone seems to take six.

Pale blue lights flash in the alcoves above them, a warning that they will soon be landing. The sound of the craft’s twin engines moves gradually from an even purr to a high-pitched hum as they push through the atmosphere of Pandora. Suddenly, Una and Greg unfold themselves from their seats and are pushing their faces up against the windows. Something large, something with wings, something _alive_ flies past the craft, causing it to shake with the passing of the gigantic creature. Una is transfixed, her golden eyes searching the bluish green zenith for another look. Greg leans back against the window, his arms crossed and a reflective expression on his face. The captain gives him a look that is clearly meant to be _I told you so_ and raises one eyebrow. Greg nods to him silently and turns back to the window, glad that he understood the parameters laid out by the captain during their conversation a few hours earlier.

Captain Holmes locks eyes with Ambassador Watson across the aisle, an unspoken _are you ready_ hovers in the air between them. John can feel a little tingle of nervous energy coursing through his body at the prospect of something new. He has no doubt that the captain feels exactly the same way, no matter how he tries to hide it.

A yellow light blinks on and off several times above them and everyone reaches beside their chairs for the face mask/oxygen re-breather tucked beside them. The face shield is a clear, strong material like plastic; it sets over the head the way any helmet would do. There is a small screen at mouth level that is infused with a special chemical concoction that wicks out the majority of the Xenon present in the alien atmosphere but allows the nitrogen and oxygen to pass through. John recalls that Sherlock explained that he based this new design on the original sketches and photographs found in the files that had come from the first science crew to land on this moon.

After donning the masks, the crew pulls on gloves and buttons up their uniform shirts: cuffs and collars. Since none of them have been on this particular moon before (actually Greg has never been on any other planet except Earth) they all await landing with a slight bit of trepidation. With a final hiss and a soft thump and crunch, the shuttle craft alights on the surface. All of the lights switch off in the seating area. The cargo door opens towards at the rear of the shuttle; there is the soft whooshing sound of hydraulics working under the door and then a soft but heavy whump when the metal of the ramp hits against grassy ground. Una and George move immediately down the ramp, Una’s boots making a hollow ringing sound as she steps towards the ground. George follows her at a slower pace, the suckers on his tentacles making wet kissing sounds as he scoots down the ramp. The two of them open another compartment on the outside of the craft and start unloading gear, electronic equipment and suitcases. Greg moves around the opposite side of the craft and unfolds a bright red metal four-wheeled cart. He and John stack the gear and other assorted needs on the cart. The captain stands for a moment and watches his crew then turns his attention to finding his bearings in this strange land.

Sherlock steps away from them for a few moments to climb up on a little hill. In front of him there is a unique landscape that seems to drop straight down into a ravine after a few short steps. Behind him is the single long, rectangular building that will serve as their laboratory and quarters while they are here. For the most part the foliage around the clearing is dark green, though there are hints of pale blue and vermillion here and there among the leaves, roots and tangled vines. The entire place reeks of neglect and the passing of seven decades.

In his mind he can see a busy compound run by a scientist who was as sincere in her efforts to make peace with the indigenous population as she was in her methodical record-keeping. He has studied what he could get of Dr. Augustine’s files in depth, though he has the feeling that more will become clear to him very shortly.

“Captain!” Sherlock is torn from his musings when Greg shouts for him. They are all standing about in front of the gray building by the main entrance. Why are they just standing there? Sherlock frowns then pats his pocket. He holds the key up for them all to see that he has not forgotten it and then gracefully jumps from the little hill to land on both feet with his knees slightly bent, boot heels digging into the terrain. He glides over to his crew and swiftly pops the key into the large padlock on the door. It unlocks with a _snick_ and John pushes it inward. Sherlock starts to step in first, though John hauls him back with a serious “No.”

John gives Greg a nod and the two of them move into the building together. Sherlock begins to open his mouth then snaps it shut: he can already hear John’s argument of _Let us do the jobs you assigned. Now shut up and get out of the way._ He makes a sour expression and leans against the building to wait, one foot placed flat against the metal skin. He fiddles with the e-cig that he carries in his pocket though he does not bring it out and light it. Too difficult to smoke it while wearing the mask.

Una happens to catch the exchange in between staring about herself with something akin to wonder, she hides a soft smile behind one hand, nervous as are all of her people about showing her sharp teeth. It is for this reason that the Teloms do not talk much, even to their commanding officers. Sometimes the sharp points give her a strange accent, especially around the time that the enamel is shedding. Una takes a deep breath and steadies herself. After all the months and weeks of planning, she is finally where she has worked herself to the bone to be. She knows that she has not quite been accepted as part of the “group” yet, but being an integral part of the crew is a good start in her mind. When the Ambassador and Greg return to give the all clear, she is the third one into the ramshackle dwelling. It is her duty to find the oxygen pumps and get them started so they can all go without the masks. Una hefts the large yellow tool box she has just picked up from one hand to the other to keep from bumping it against anyone or anything as she begins her own explorations.

She gives the men a curt, respectful nod and moves quickly through the tiny foyer, down a short corridor and then straight down the center of a large, open room. She casts a cursory glance at the scientific equipment that lines the walls, especially interesting are several large, round capsules that look both like beds and burial caskets at the same time. At one time they were probably gleaming silver; a thick layer of dust coats their dull finishes now, a natural protection from time. There is no time to dawdle, however, and she continues on to the very back of what she is quickly beginning to think of in her mind as “the shack.”

Finally finding the oxygen pumps, she sets her toolbox down on a table next to them. This particular pair is as wide as she is tall, round metal turbines with cases that had once been painted bright red. The same thick layer of dust and grime coat every piece of their now rust-colored exterior. She flips open the top of the yellow box, opens it up fully and extracts several wide black pieces of material. She uses this magnetic material to wipe around the keypads, the blades of the turbines and across the tops, or as much as she can reach, of the machines themselves. Once she finishes going over them, Una decides that they are in excellent condition for their age. She has no reason to believe that they will not work, so she sets herself to the task of priming them and setting them to use for the first time in seventy-five years.

It is slow going, but finally the machines are primed and the turbines are spinning, filling the whole place with a quiet hum of background noise similar to any starship. After a day or so, they will all be so accustomed to the sound that none of them will hear it unless the machines shut off. When she reaches the largest of the rooms, the crew has all laid out their bedrolls in a circle; the old furniture throughout the place has been pushed to one wall to be dealt with tomorrow. Outside, the landscape is turning dark very quickly.

George is in the corner rummaging through a large sack. He is slowly pulling out several sticks similar in size to old-fashioned candles. He sets them around the room, placing them so that the entire workspace will be lit up. As he sets each one down, he pushes an unseen button and they seem to shoot straight up until they are about half as tall as he is. Each one flickers to life and soon the room is bathed in a soft, golden light reminiscent of late autumn afternoon on Earth. From the corner nearest the doorway, the captain mumbles “thank you” and proceeds to continue typing on a large e-book that he has set upon one of the old desks. The Odal is not wearing a mask, since his gills are an even better filtration system than anything either the IA or Captain Holmes could design. He settles down on his bedroll and closes his eyes. Greg and John are not in sight at the moment.

Una clears her throat and waits on the captain to acknowledge her. They will all be working and living in close proximity in the coming weeks, though she is lax to let herself become too familiar with her crewmates. She stands at attention. The captain studies her for a moment before answering.

“Yes, Engineer?” His voice is muffled through his mask. She does not salute him this time, though he can clearly see her begin to do so. He sighs to himself and considers that he’s got to nip this ridiculous formality in the bud before it gets out of hand.

“The oxygen pumps are fully operational and are running, if you would like to remove your mask, sir.” Una delivers her speech with a funny twist to her lips that is meant to cover her teeth. She knows from experience that many races, often including humans, often take offense to a Telom “baring their teeth.”

Sherlock nods and removes his mask. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, thinking that it is wonderful after the stale air inside the mask. Una copies him.

“Engineer, could we please forgo the formalities? All of this…” he waves his hand about in a circular motion, indicating the room, them, and probably the entire moon. “…this is a research mission, not a military one. You don’t have to be so…” he begins to say _rigid_ and then the memory of John stopping Greg from saying almost the very same thing about the Telom makes him switch tactics. He sighs, sets the e-book down and focuses fully on the golden-skinned, golden-eyed and white haired alien woman in front of him, his hands on his knees. He rolls his head a bit, loosening up his shoulders, causing the rickety stool he is perched up to groan. He frowns and then returns his attention to Una.

“The formalities are pointless here. I don’t care about them and since I am in charge, you can dispense with some of them. I would prefer you simply call me ‘captain.’” Una gives a little shake of her chin to show him she understands. “Good. Understand that you were first chosen by John and second by me. You were chosen because of your qualifications, the way you keep cool under pressure and your skills with machinery. I have studied every alien race that humankind currently has access to. Stop trying to hide yourself from me. It will never work.” Sherlock’s heavy-lidded green eyes bore into her gold ones; for the first time, Una finds herself pulled along in a tractor beam that could either set her on the safest path imaginable or drop her into the vast emptiness of space never to be heard from again.

“Aye, captain.” She says softly.

“Ah. Good then, we understand each other.” The captain states as he is opening his eyes to a more normal position. “Relax a while, they will be back soon and maybe we can get started.”

Una fiddles with her bedroll for a few moments, but grows bored of the activity quickly. Instead, she moves back towards the oxygen pumps, carefully checking the other machines in the vicinity. When machinery this old, it certainly cannot hurt to be extra cautious.

~***~

Greg and John have returned from their scouting mission around the perimeter of the little campsite. George whipped up a quick meal of veg-bacon and biscuits, carefully repackaging all of the ingredients into one of the multiple bags and cases that came off of the shuttle with them. After everyone eats and gets comfortable again, he shuts off all but one of the lights, effectively calming the atmosphere down considerably. Their bedrolls are spread around in a circle, leaving a clear space in the center and allowing them all to see each other. Una is between Greg and George, with John and Sherlock together against the wall. George is asleep, Greg is reading his e-book and Una is smashing her pillow up under her head. She is glad that they only have to spend one night like this, tomorrow they will be able to explore the larger cabin behind this building; it may possibly allow them to have a bit more privacy. For now, though, this is a good thing; even she admits that there are times it is comforting to know there are others around.

She closes her eyes as the tension begins to seep slowly from her bones. Her sleeping bag is soft and welcoming. It does not take her long to fall into a sound sleep, curled with her back towards the open center of the room.

Greg finishes reading the last of the files that he copied to his e-book, looks about the room and notes the tangle of limbs and sleeping bags that appears to be John and Sherlock. He smiles a little to himself and sinks deeper into his own bedroll.

A hush settles over the weary explorers. An alien night descends outside around them and there are squeaks, growls, and even sharp barks from the wildlife as creatures sniff about the place, finding scents that have not been present for generations of their kind. Somewhere out in the wilderness there is the cry of a well-built, six-legged, canine-like creature as he hunts swiftly through the underbrush.

Back inside, Greg and John are suddenly awake; their guardian instincts kicking into overdrive. Greg is already moving towards the door by the time John extracts himself from Sherlock. He reaches across his sleeping lover and pulls a wide-bladed hunting knife from his boot. Greg has done the same, a small dagger in his hand as they both creep across the cold wooden floor on the balls of their bare feet. John notes the way the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck are standing on end.

Greg looks to him when he hears the same sound again that pulled them both out of deep sleep in seconds. He nods towards the door, the single light catching the concerned look in his eyes. John nods silently in return and reaches out to open the door. Both men are tense.

John opens the door enough to make out a large humanoid figure. Greg reaches out, grasps the figure by the shoulders and spins it around. Before any sound is made, he has his arms around the figure’s shoulders and his dagger pressed against a throat. John has closed the door and stands facing the figure with the hunting knife pointing where he thinks the heart would be. It is a face-off only broken by a deep, sleepy baritone behind them.

“I should let them kill you.”

Another light snaps on, effectively illuminating the figure held in place by two very determined men with a pair of very sharp blades.

“I can imagine you would.” The sentence is stated in a very concisely enunciated voice similar to the captain’s.

“Stand down.” Sherlock says with quiet authority.

Over the pounding of his heartbeat and the haze of an adrenalin rush, John can finally see who their intruder is.

“Admiral, just what the bloody hell are you doing here?”


	9. Discoveries

Greg drops his hands from around the Admiral’s neck and snaps into military attention with practiced ease that belies his terror. There are only two thoughts running through his mind at the moment: _Oh shit, what have I done_ and _Wow, he is much better built that it would seem._ In the few seconds that Greg’s bare chest was pushed up against the Admiral’s back, he could feel a very clearly defined musculature through the material of his hunter green shirt. There was also absolutely no tremor, no trembling and no hint of nervousness when being faced with deadly weaponry and a pair of equally deadly and equally steady men. There is no time for this, however, as the Admiral merely gazes down at them, as in straight down his nose, and then turns to the captain.

“Well, at least _that_ passes my inspection.” A small frown appears on the Admiral’s face, just a hint of a downward tug on his lips as he removes his mask. John and Greg share a look between them behind Mycroft’s back. Neither man needs to say it, though they both feel there is something more than meets the eye going on here.

“You are not here for any _inspection_ , Admiral.” Sherlock states knowingly, not taking his piercing eyes from his brother’s face.

George and Una are now standing behind the captain, waiting to see if the situation is going to resolve itself or if they will be needed to speed that resolution along. Sherlock just stares at his brother, hands curled into fists against his hips; letting his anger for him showing up right at the beginning of a project that is supposed to be _his_ and scaring _his_ team. Everyone else just slowly gets of out dodge, except for John. He is no stranger to this brand of posturing between the pair of them. He feels like it is his place to keep them from killing one another. As long as they stand with distance between them, things might work out okay: he is going to assure it.

No one speaks for a full minute; this is familiar territory all of them. Though things had improved between the brothers since the Time Gate, there are still rough patches. Like now.

“Mycroft, why exactly are you here?” Sherlock asks in a tightly controlled voice. He gestures behind himself at the room at large, cluttered as it is with old scientific equipment and his crew. “Nothing here holds your interest. That is why you sent _me_.”

“I reconsidered and thought perhaps you might need my help.” The Admiral is just as quiet, just as controlled, but he is a man unused to his authority being questioned. If Sherlock were any other subordinate, he would be toeing a very dangerous line. He points the mask in his hand in Sherlock’s direction as if it would help make his case.

“Before you get your hackles up, dear brother, I do not need you. My crew does not need you. Why. Are. You. Here?” Sherlock is actually gritting his teeth. John takes note of the muscles standing out against his jaw. He steps a bit closer to his lover; the tension in the captain’s jaw eases, though the anger in his eyes just flares as he crosses his arms over his barely-buttoned shirt.

Mycroft is caught. He could lie. He could just walk away and let Sherlock fall into this trap alone. Or he could tell part of the truth without revealing all and then he will be here if things go pear-shaped. He calculates his chances of the captain believing his lie, finds that he will most certainly come out on the downside of that one and decides that even mostly the truth is a better choice.

“I believe that I may have left out some important research concerning this case.”

“What do you mean, you believe? Either you did or you did not.” Sherlock takes a step towards his brother. Mycroft stands his ground.

Mycroft sighs. He might as well spill it. “There were a few things that I left out of the research I gave you. A few days ago, some being broke into my quarters and removed it. All of it concerned the second half of the research being carried out here seventy five years ago. It was a unique situation and it all revolved around the scientists’ ability to walk among the native people.”

Sherlock begins to take another step forward and then halts. His eyes narrow and he tilts his head to the side. John can actually _feel_ the pieces click into place when Sherlock finally speaks: “Avatar.”

The word drips off of his tongue into the space between the brothers. Mycroft’s eyes widen with shock. Once again, he does not move. The unspoken question between them is answered by Sherlock with one of his own. “Have you ever known me to jump into unfamiliar territory without learning everything about it that I may possibly find?”

Mycroft nods. Sherlock continues. “I still find it impossible to see what your presence is going to add to this mission.”

Mycroft does not say _I want to protect you_ because he knows how foolish it sounds for an adult to say those words to another adult. Instead, he states factually: “I am interested in the project.”

Sherlock regards him shrewdly, though he does not say anything else about it. “Fine. Stay out of the way.” Apparently, Sherlock is through with the argument for now. “John?” He turns towards him, his expression open and questioning. John nods and follows him back to their pallet against the wall.

Mycroft heaves a sigh of relief. That went better than expected. He pulls his e-book from his trousers and sends a quick message to his second-in-command, letting him know that the ship should remain in orbit for the time being, or until he sends further orders. He slips his mask back on and retrieves his belongings from the shuttle that has landed beside the one that the crew rode in. He returns to the short foyer and sets up his own pallet near the door.

It is only a few moments before the calming sound of sleeping beings fills the air in the building. The steady hum of the oxygen pumps is a background song to the Admiral’s ears, reminding him of his ship and calming his heart rate. Even so, he will not sleep this night. He sits with his back against the door and his e-book in hand, trying to discover any more pertinent information that the captain’s crew may need now that they are on Pandora.

~***~

Morning comes with a resounding silence from the wilderness that surrounds them. The crew members wake slowly, each being moving about their own space. As usual, the captain is already sitting in a position unknowingly mirroring his brother’s from the night before: his back against the wall, e-book in his lap. The only difference being the hand of his lover that is currently resting against his thigh. Sherlock’s fingers fly over the screen of the little machine as he enters his thoughts into his log. John stirs just as Sherlock completes his entry and taps the machine into sleep mode.

They all take turns in the tiny lavatory that contains only a sink and a toilet. Every one is thankful that at least the plumbing works, even if the water has a slightly rusty scent to it, it is decent enough to clean up. Without much discussion, once they are cleaned up and have partaken of a breakfast laid out by George, they roll up their pallets and begin examining the variety of equipment.

Greg and John take orders from the captain as he instructs them where to move certain machines. For the time being, he wants to concentrate on getting the network back up and running. George has already claimed a desk and chair and he sits with his eyes glued to an old monitor, the tips of his tentacles tapping furiously on the keyboard. Occasionally, he lets out a little squeak of excitement as something new is uncovered.

Una checks out the wiring and other hardware important to keeping the machines running without a hitch. After several hours, she declares everything in working order except for the strange casket-like machines that are being ignored at this point in order to make the lab operational. The captain has taken up residence next to George and his fingers are flying over two keyboards and the screen of his e-book in turns. Mycroft hangs about, watching and cataloging, occasionally asking questions and actually staying out of the way.

Una, Greg and John are making use of the magnetic cloths that Una has brought along to clean the machines and computers. Within hours, the lab equipment is gleaming and there seems to be a undercurrent of discovery running through the lab. By the time they break for a simple lunch, Dr. Augustine would certainly have recognized her old lab.

Within a day, Sherlock and Una have put their talents together and have not only designed but built a new computer with a massive amount of memory. Sherlock and George download every single file that they can recover from the aged equipment. Eventually, the explorers make it out to the cabin behind the lab building and discover it has four rooms, a sitting room and a much more comfortable kitchen that George happily squeaks over.

By the second day, the crew is working together like a well-polished machine. George, John and Una share kitchen duties. George bounces between helping the captain with the computers and the kitchen at this point. Greg and John explore the perimeter around their base fully and begin to get a feel for the wildlife. Mycroft watches them but does not intervene.

On the third day, John and Sherlock leave the base to find out what kind of edible plant life is around them. They return to the cabin later that night with a bag full of strange-looking, bright yellow fruit that turns out to taste like sweet watermelon. George gives the bag a once over and creates three recipes for the stuff on the spot.

On the fourth day, George breaks into Dr. Augustine’s encrypted files and finds a video journal left by one of the men involved in the original project, Jake Sully. Later that day, John finds Sherlock standing alone in the lab as the darkness is claiming the wilderness and the nocturnal creatures are beginning their hunt. One hand rests on one of the casket-like pods and in the other hand is his e-book  where he is viewing some of the videos made by Dr. Augustine’s crew. When he turns to see John, there is a light in his eyes like nothing John has ever seen. Later, John would call that light _want_ or _need_ ; at this point he confuses it for _desire_ and they are soon in their room in the cabin, limbs wrapped around each other, erections straining for release and lips so tightly pressed that each man is breathing the other one’s exhalations.

Mycroft begins to notice his brother’s growing interest in the Avatars but remains silent. They still have a long way to go before they can even consider that side of the project. Or so he believes.


	10. Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One should not listen to Dream On by DePeche Mode whilst writing fanfiction...those sensual riffs gave us the following. Should I apologize?

In his dreams, Captain Holmes is restless. Without actually moving from the tangle of blankets and John he wanders down long corridors flanked by doors, his ground-covering strides driving him forward at a speed that would force anyone else to jog to remain beside him. The doors are wooden, steel, aluminum, plastic, opaque, translucent. Some are huge and some are tiny; some are of ancient craftsmanship, while others are quite new. All around is darkness but each step he takes forward the way is lit as if he were carrying a torch. There are no sounds except his own footsteps echoing off of the solid construction of his mind. He comes to a halt in front of a shiny new door, painted bright blue. He watches as his pale hand appears and pushes it inward. He steps over the threshold into more darkness. This darkness has a different quality to it, more like the darkness just before dawn; it is starting to fade from oil-slicked ebony to foggy early morning grey.

He stands and waits. The temperature here is perfect, not too hot and not too cold, the air is still like that in a gigantic underground archive. There is the faint whiff of old books and papers no one ever touches without finger cots. He wishes that he could actually see those things. _So much to gain so close…but still out of reach._

Suddenly, a comfortable chair appears and he sits, his legs spread and arms resting comfortably. It seems to say _this is as far as you go._ He waits. Time passes immeasurably. There are no clocks, as in this place time is meaningless. He rests one elbow against the arm of the chair, rests his chin on his hand. He drums his long fingers against the strangely rough but soothing material of the other arm of the chair. The upholstery is scratchy and bumpy. He knows without looking that the chair is burnt orange in color and belongs in a sitting room only seen in old pictures in history books.

A tall woman in a white lab coat materializes from the inky depths he cannot probe. She seems to be speaking as she walks towards him, though he cannot yet understand the sounds she is making. Not yet. She holds her arms out in his direction and gives him a warm but slightly crooked smile. Her hands are empty.

In his dreams, he addresses her by her name. “Doctor Augustine?” She nods quietly, her wavy sandy ginger hair bobbing on her shoulders. Now she stands in front of him with her hands in her pockets as if she were pondering all of the deepest questions of the universe. She is not completely solid, more like a hologram projected onto smoke. Grace is close enough that he can see a bright flash of wonder in her brown eyes, as if looking at him is another student to be nurtured or an experiment to be cataloged, learned, and accepted.

Sherlock’s voice sounds strange to his own ears, the far-sounding baritone rumble unrecognizable as his own. “ _I need to know_.” He refuses to acknowledge the strength of his desire to himself, even in dreams. He will admit to a pull of _something_ as of yet unnamed.

“Not all things are knowable.” She smiles again and then her image fades into the black velvet depths that are soon replaced with newborn golden light as he is pulled into consciousness, leaving him with the simultaneous feelings of breaking through water gasping for air and knowing there is something within his grasp that he cannot reach yet.

With a deep inhale, he is pulled back into the reality of lying naked against his lover’s chest, the steady bass thrum of a heartbeat beneath his ear. The scents of warm masculinity and arousal replace those of moldering documents and hidden secrets. He turns his head just slightly so that the sparse stubble that has sprouted overnight across his jaw rubs against John’s bare chest. There is the sound of a soft chuckle and then a hiss of pleasure above him as Sherlock scoots downward on the bed, his rough face leaving a trail of ticklish fire down John’s torso. This he knows.

When he reaches John’s rather proud arousal, he swipes down the shaft with his tongue and purrs a little when he takes the head of John’s cock into his mouth. John bucks upward but with enough control that it becomes only an easy lift of his hips instead of a full-out thrust. John groans, thoroughly enjoying his lover’s ministrations. After a time, he calls out to Sherlock in warning, his voice raspy and breathy. The captain merely grunts and proceeds to take everything that John will give him. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as John reaches out to him. As always, the action causes John to inhale sharply, his eyes going dark as the fresh memory of what his lover has just done for him rolls over him with the power of a summer storm.

Their lips crash against one another. John’s hand is curled around Sherlock’s nape and Sherlock is balanced over him on his arms, the muscles tense from arousal and need. John flips him over and moves to return the favor. Before he can get to his intended target, however, the captain hauls him back upward so that he can capture the ambassador’s mouth with his own. Sherlock’s hands knead John’s firm buttocks, the long fingers digging against the flesh with enough power to thrill but not leave any proof of his passing. John obliges as Sherlock’s kisses become frantic, searching things that seem to live their own lives. For an instant, John pulls away. Their eyes lock, lusty azure crystal peering deep into searing emerald flames. He cannot help but drink in the desire on his lover’s face, as much to him as his heart is to Sherlock.

“What would you like?” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear then giving it a swipe with is tongue for good measure; his voice is a rumble in his throat and he cannot take his eyes away from his lover’s face. His strong fingers tighten against Sherlock’s scalp, feeling the dichotomy of hard bone beneath thin flesh and the luxurious silk of that mane.

Sherlock understands. “You.” He answers plainly, letting his eyes tell the rest.

John inhales sharply and nods his answer. Sherlock moves from underneath him, walks two paces to his bag, withdraws a tiny bottle of clear liquid and then returns to the bed, this time covering John’s body with his own. He prepares his lover gently, expertly, noticing John’s flagging erection struggling to come back to life with each thrust of his fingers. He enjoys this part as much as the actual intercourse itself. When he is satisfied that John is ready, he moves himself into position, ever so slowly pushing into the tight heat that is open only for him.

John moans and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s hips, his powerful thighs pulling his lover closer. The thrill of the heat of John everywhere around him forces minute electric shocks down his spine and his thrusts become hurried, desperate; John cants his hips forward and meets every single one of them until he is coming for the second time, his arousal completely untouched and finally, finally, Sherlock is falling over the edge and drowning in the sensation of his own orgasm. The growl that bursts from his throat is primal, possessive. It is a safe fall, however, for as soon as he pitches forward, John’s arms are around him, one hand running down his back and gently back towards his neck with gentle finger touches. Together, they drop back into the blue shades of sleep riding on a heady mix of scarlet desire and something deeper without a color that neither of them will name.


	11. Fox and Hound

 The days drag forward, pulling them all along as time is wont to do regardless of the planet, moon or even the galaxy that one happens to find his or her self. They have all made themselves stay busy: whether it is cleaning up the laboratory, cleaning and re-booting machines or cleaning up and making the cabin habitable. It is obvious that the cabin is not part of the original encampment here—in fact where the lab sits now is not its original position, either. Captain Holmes has discovered this through his many hours of research into Dr. Augustine’s records. During the first war between those attempting to strip the moon of its natural resources and the natives, the lab was quite literally picked up by a Samson helicopter, flown up the side of a mountain and very slowly dropped here. The pilot of that helicopter, a woman named Trudy Chacon, later died during the first battle. Sherlock holds her photograph in between his long fingers, staring into her brown eyes and reading her tough, no-nonsense expression. It is always a sad thing to see a fellow soldier go down, no matter the cause.

Really, the captain has never thought of himself as a solider; he has never really fit into any particular box. He can fight with the best of them, to the death if necessary; his is the heart of a scientist, a researcher—someone who is constantly possessed with the need to _know_ ; he is not a soldier in any true sense of the word. He places the old, yellowing photograph back into its file and pushes the file aside.

The lab around them is full of gleaming machines, bright lights and computer monitors showing views of Pandora on their screen-savers as they wait silently to be put back to work. The slight hum of the oxygen pumps fills the big room with white noise. George is sitting in the corner, his tentacles flying over a keyboard as he types out data from yet another old file. This one is red and newer than the stacks Sherlock has been digging through. Occasionally, George stops in his typing to use a tentacle to sip from the glass of green liquid on the console beside him. He is completely focused on his task, eyes never leaving the monitor.

John sits in the end seat of the long wooden table that is covered with hills and mountains of dusty old brown and crinkly manila files taking notes. Sherlock considers that it is quite amazing that something like paper has managed to sit here practically unmolested for all this time. John is alternating between typing exactly when Sherlock is dictating into his e-book and scratching his own notes onto a yellow pad of actual paper. Off to his left is a long, flat case. Occasionally, the captain reads John’s sideways scrawl and makes a comment or a correction; for the most part, however, they have worked in almost silence for the past four hours. It a companionable, familiar thing for the two of them that sometimes they even forget where they are and that this mission has more purpose that simply fact finding.

John rubs his eyes as he sets down his knife-sharpened black oil pencil. His hair is slightly longer than he generally wears it, just brushing the collar of the mustard yellow shirt he is wearing. He runs his hand through it as he speaks. “I believe we are finally getting to where we can present some of this information to the team.” Sherlock hums a little under his breath in agreement, his emerald eyes flashing as they fly through yet another hand-written document. He unclips a memory chip from the file and holds it out to John, who takes it and slides it into the leather case beside him for safe-keeping.  

John is just about to stand up and stretch, thinking that he would love something to drink when there is a loud _crash_ and the front door to the lab is slammed open to admit one red-faced and very angry Weapons Expert followed by an equally furious Admiral. Sherlock, John and even George over in the corner have all completely forgotten just exactly what they were about to do.

Greg reaches up with the hand not currently curled into a fist and rips the mask off of his face. He turns towards Mycroft, his brown eyes filling with the glare of death. Mycroft slowly removes his own mask, his other hand carding through his neat dark ginger coif as he does so. He glares back at Greg, a much more exasperated expression on his face than the one Greg is wearing.  

Una has come in behind them and closes the door expediently before stepping around them and removing herself from the situation entirely. Sherlock silently notes her passing through towards the back of the lab where there is now a door and a tunnel to the cabin; she says nothing but he can read the set of her shoulders and the way her legs reach out to devour the floor that she is just as unhappy as the other two. As she moves past them, she rips off her own mask and hurls it to the floor. George slides forward, picks it up and then moves back to his corner, though he does not return to his job yet, instead he just watches, his huge eyes made even bigger by the trepidation in them. His light green skin is even slightly flushed. John wonders for a brief moment whether the Odal is more afraid of the Admiral or of something that might happen to his friend.

The tense silence is finally broken when Greg shouts at Mycroft. “How goddamn fucking bloody hell d’you expect me to do my job when I’ve to constantly save your arse?” Greg’s so upset that his accent is falling apart.

Mycroft just frowns at him, those ridiculously plucked eyebrows meeting in a distinct point at the tips. “I was just following up…”

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare!” Greg has forced himself in his personal bubble and is now right up in the Admiral’s face; something no one except for his own brother has ever attempted and survived. At this point, though, Greg is completely unaware of any real danger; he is right at the end of his rope and could care less how many centimeters he is from actually dangling from it.

“Greg.” Mycroft says the other man’s name sternly, making a weak attempt at pushing his authority. He runs a finger between his hunter-green collar and his neck, clearing his throat.

Greg shakes his head back and forth. “Give it up! It is impossible to set up any kind of place to practice if this bastard insists on trying to get himself killed!” Greg shouts, rolling the last word around his tongue like a hard candy before letting the hard consonant drop between them as his teeth clench. He turns his attention towards Sherlock, though he is clearly pointing at the Admiral.

For once, Sherlock has the grace to not even open his mouth. Inside, however, he is smirking quite openly—he didn’t want Mycroft here in the first place. Instead, he just levels a gaze at his brother that tells Mycroft plainly that the Admiral has no authority here.

A heartbeat passes, then another. Greg is breathing hard and his hands are trembling, the mask that is held between sturdy, tan fingers is now bouncing against his thigh. He shakes his head in annoyance as he stalks away, following Una’s path back towards the cabin. His boots leave heavy echoes in his place. Mycroft just stands there, for once completely at a loss, watching Greg’s amethyst-shirted back disappear. The door between the lab and the cabin slams shut, actually rattling the corrugated metal that serves as the roof. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and returns to the file in front of him. The name _Jake Sully_ , written in a neat hand is plainly visible on the tab of the file.

George also returns to his task. John, however, gives the Admiral a hard look. “What _did_ you do?” In the short time they have been working together, John has never seen Greg so upset; in fact he would not have believed it from the mild-mannered man if he had not seen it right in front of him.

Mycroft seems to come out of the trance he is in, still staring after Greg even though he is no longer in the room. He opens his mouth to answer, but John cuts him off.

“Don’t give me any of that _it’s not important_ bullshit, Mycroft. I know better.” John returns to his seat, sets his clasped hands together on the table in front of him and regards the man who might as well be his brother-in-law with a severe expression. He waits.

Finally, Mycroft sighs and his shoulders actually slump downward. He does not look at John when he speaks; instead his gaze narrows as if he could make Greg reappear from the back room just by wishing it to be so. “Greg and the Telom…”

John cuts him off for the second time, his voice cold. “Her name is Una.”

Mycroft regards the Ambassador with one eyebrow arched so high it seems to be trying to make love to his hairline then decides to only deal with one mess at a time. “Yes. Greg and Una were doing a bit of sparring in the clearing.” John nods. “I was out walking the camp’s perimeter and thought it might be interesting to see how the two of them were getting along.”

John groans. He can see it all so clearly. His eyes slip shut as he rests his forehead on the palm of one hand, his elbow sitting on the table. “Brilliant thinking, Mycroft, brilliant.”

“Quite.” Mycroft answers. He proceeds to explain how he ended up facing the business end of Greg’s sword. He then runs a finger across the shoulder of his shirt, opening up a tear that no one else had noticed until then. Sherlock even tore his attention away from the file in his hand long enough to give his brother the Holmesian version of the long-suffering sigh of the intelligent dealing with those who are less than.

John stands and walks around the table. “Let me see.” Mycroft takes the chair John vacated and John gently probes under the material. The Admiral _is_ quite lucky, the flat side of the blade was controlled enough to only scratch the man’s skin. John whistles under his breath. “Sherlock, look at this.”

Sherlock stands and studies the thin red line on his brother’s shoulder.

“Do you know what that means?” John asks his lover.

Sherlock nods the affirmative. “It means that our Weapon’s Expert controlled the fall of the blade, even when surprised.”

The Admiral actually has the decency to look surprised and then his face goes pale. The whites around his dark blue irises seem so much brighter in contrast. In that instant, it occurs to him just how foolish stepping out of the thick foliage to face a man who has only been using that wicked blade for a very short amount of time really was. He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt and clears his throat. “Damn.” He says quietly.

John nods and heads towards the cabin to see what he can do about dinner.

~***~

Dinner that evening is a bit more subdued than normal. They all sit at the dining table, save for George who is still in the lab, happily working his way through his third stack of files that day. Odals as a race need much less sleep than humans and George in particular loves to sit at his computer doing data entry while he lets his mind wander.

So it is that Sherlock, John, Greg, Una and Mycroft are dining together. There is very little discussion between them-except for the polite requests to _please pass the roast_ or _anyone need anything else while I am up_. The only other sounds are cutlery clinking against dishware and a soft thump when glasses return to the table. Since John and Una made tonight’s meal, it is Greg and Mycroft’s turn to tidy the kitchen.

Una finishes her meal rapidly, clearing her dishes and stacking them on the sideboard. She is pleasant enough in her “good night” to them, though the flashing stare she throws Mycroft’s way is enough to clue them in on the way she is really feeling. She has every intention of asking Greg tomorrow if they should approach the captain about some extra training time _with_ the admiral. Maybe if he gets involved it will keep him from skulking around. Una has almost had it with the older man and hopes that a political approach will keep her from losing her career.

She goes to her room and turns down the sleeping bag that is completely unzipped. It makes a decent blanket. Una gathers up her sheer sleeping clothes and moves to the lavatory to bathe. She hears John and the captain in the hallway as they ready themselves to turn in. After filling the tub, she can still hear a steady rumble of their voices as they talk, most likely about the information in that mountain of files from earlier today. It has taken her awhile to get used to the customs of humans, and the male-male pairings that occur as often as female-male pairings do among them. She is comfortable around them, however, and thinks that has more to do with John’s steady, unassuming temperament than the captain’s sharp intellect. She dozes for a while in the warm water, letting the steam drift around herself as the voices grow fainter. It is comfortable here, even being so far from home, almost like being part of a family again.

~***~

Greg is washing the dishes as if they have personally insulted his mother. As each one is finished, it is a centimeter within being smashed against the bottom of the metal sink. Mycroft stands next to him stiffly, drying each one and stacking them neatly. He can feel the angry heat simmering off of the man next to him. It is unnerving and strangely arousing. Mycroft frowns to himself and wonders where in the hell _that_ word came from.

The last plate is none-too-gently slammed against the basin and Greg stands straighter, drying his hands with a well-used red and white checked towel. He most emphatically does not look at Mycroft, though he does mutter “thank you for the help” as he makes to brush past the other man.

In an instant, Mycroft knows how foolish it would be to let this go. He reaches out and snags Greg’s wrist in a loose grasp, giving Greg the option of moving away. The younger man simply looks down at Mycroft’s hand and freezes on the spot, his expression growing cold.

“What?” He asks, his lips barely moving to permit the sound through them.

“I want to apologize.” Mycroft says honestly.

The two men size each other up for the hundredth time since they met. They are only a few centimeters apart in height; the Admiral is leaner in build where Greg is muscular, broad-shouldered. Mycroft’s dark ginger hair contrasts with Greg’s dark-brown-shot-with silver as does his much paler skin to Greg’s warmer tan from spending more time outside than the admiral. Neither man makes a sound. Now is the time that will make or break any further dealings between the two of them.

Greg takes notice of their differences and their similarities almost as quickly as Mycroft does. He thinks about strong muscles against his chest when he had Mycroft in an almost-headlock the night they landed. Some unnamed creature gently coils about in his chest, lightly purring as he stares into dark blue eyes that are level with his own. The hand clasped around his wrist is strong but not aggressive. He really needs to move before he does something stupid, so he steps backward, removing his wrist from the admiral’s hand but not pulling away with any haste. The spot where those fingers were wrapped feels warm as if he had touched a hot burner on the stove. He can only hope that he has moved away fast enough to hide what he is feeling.

“Apology accepted.” He says, his voice coming from between his teeth more gruffly than he had intended.

Mycroft nods his head and watches as once again, Greg Lestrade walks away from him.


	12. New Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to try it.” Sherlock says so softly under his breath that John has to lean in towards his tall drink of water to catch the words that seem to turn into mist mere centimeters from his lips. Sherlock is not facing him, but down at the machine he is gently touching with all of the fingers on his right hand.

“I want to try it.” Sherlock says so softly under his breath that John has to lean in towards his tall drink of water to catch the words that seem to turn into mist mere centimeters from his lips. Sherlock is not facing him, but down at the machine he is gently touching with all of the fingers on his right hand.

They are standing beside one of the gleaming chrome caskets. Sherlock is lovingly caressing the machine and the look on his face can only be described as _enraptured_. John is not sure whether he should be thrilled that something has struck the captain’s fancy so strongly or perhaps a little jealous. In the end, he errs on the side of trusting Sherlock and smiles back at him. “Not until there are two.”

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder at John with a little frown on his face. His neatly arranged, slightly long curls bounce against the nape of the neck that John loves to run the tip of his tongue over. “You read the files?” He asks, his voice coming out a bit rougher than he had perhaps intended. He sees John’s thoughts very clearly and a faint stain of pink dances across his cheeks.

“Aye, I viewed the videos, too.” John nods. Some days it’s as if everything they say to one another is foreplay. He changes his focus, however, and says perhaps a bit more stern that he intended: “It’s my job to take care of you, Sherlock.” He spreads his legs shoulder-width apart and patiently waits for Sherlock to either erupt or back down. John knows that the captain wanted to make the announcement to the team about the Avatars and the possibility of re-creating Dr. Augustine’s work, but some things just cannot be helped.

In order to keep everyone safe, especially the captain, John needs to stay on top of things, too. He learned many moons ago that on those occasions when Sherlock forgets important things that he does not keep John out of the loop intentionally but because he loves the dramatic flair. John, however, is bit smarter than the average hominid and since it was vital that he learned to keep up with the captain early on in their relationship, he simply helped himself to the information. He feels it is not so much need-to-know type deals like for everyone else on the team; rather it is one where _he_ needs to know in order to do his job: protect the captain.

To his credit, Sherlock gives himself three seconds before he opens his mouth. That is not to say that those three seconds do not seem like ten thousand of the little buggers, but he does it anyway. He knows full well that John figured out a long time ago how to work _with_ him, and sometimes that entails moving in opposing circles to his own. His frown deepens, causing his nose to wrinkle as he scowls at his soldierly partner. Sherlock studies John and considers his options. If he gets upset, it certainly will not solve anything and may even _slow down_ the process. It also might end with him finding himself sleeping under the dining table. From the beginning, it has always been better when they worked together, no matter what the issue. The captain takes a deep breath and studies the lab at large, looking at everything except John. He can literally feel the heat from John’s body, even with the three foot gap between them.

John has not moved.

Captain Holmes finally capitulates to the only person in the galaxy who will ever see such a thing. “Fine.”

John smiles. “Want to go over the plans again?”

Sherlock finally takes his hand away from the machine and places it on John’s shoulder. The two of them move back to the long tables to once again start the process of uncovering pertinent information in the stacks of files.

~***~

The entire crew plus Mycroft is assembled in the sitting room of the cabin. Una is out of uniform today and dressed in a sheer, pale rose shift. She rests demurely in a horribly ugly green armchair, her hands gently folded together in her lap. Her golden hair is pulled back from her face and hangs in a thick braid over her shoulder. George stands beside her, resting three tentacles against the chair the same way a human would do if that human were simply using the chair for support. Una is beginning to understand the majority of what the Odal “says” and is slowly learning the difference between an excited chirp, an amused snort and a long, thin wail of fear. George has been learning about the various machines in the lab and she often finds it necessary to communicate to him about whichever one she happens to be working on. Thankful, Odals pick up on sign language at an incredibly fast pace.

Greg is sprawled out, man-style, in the other armchair, looking far too comfortable against the hideous green and mustard yellow material. He has one booted leg hooked over the arm; the other one is straight in front of him, foot resting flat on the floor. He is wearing a red uniform top today, it is buttoned up save for the last four buttons. Anyone looking would see just a hint of the muscular definition of his chest and a very fine dusting of brown hair. One hand rests over the arm of the chair his back is against and the other one is just relaxed on his black-clad thigh. His brown hair is slightly mussed from where he removed his mask a few moments ago; he has been working with Mycroft, teaching him about sword fighting. Not that the admiral could not already hold his own against an assailant, just that he has always fought with his hands.

Mycroft stands on the opposite side of the room from Greg. He is dabbing at the beads of sweat still present on his forehead from the workout with a bright red wash cloth. Greg is absolutely not admiring the way the scarlet hue contrasts against his hunter green shirt. Unlike Greg, however, Mycroft is barefoot. His shirt is also opened down to mid-chest, though remains tucked into his trousers. He lacks the muscle definition of the weapons’ expert, though if one looked close enough, which Greg absolutely is not, the admiral does not have an access of body fat on his torso. Mycroft shares his brother’s lean build, though his arms are considerably more built up, especially due to hefting the heavy practice sword, made more obvious by the fact that his long sleeves have been neatly rolled all the way to his shoulders. When he turns, there is the slightest damp patch at the base of his spine, just above the waist of his trousers. Greg tries to focus and remind himself that even though Mycroft has no real authority on this particular mission, he is still a commanding officer; and, well…some things are just _off limits_.

They are all waiting for Captain Holmes to begin the briefing concerning the next part of their mission, each being with different levels of tension.

John enters the cabin via the tunnel from the lab. He, too, is fully dressed in his uniform, a pale green shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black trousers and his supple, glossy calf-high leather boots. He gives them all a quick smile and bounces a little on the balls of his feet; the excitement is pouring off of him in almost-tangible waves. His arms are full of files and a large e-book rests on top of them, reminiscent of the way he looked in the lecture hall on the _Proto-Tethys_ a few weeks ago. He sets the e-book up so that it may be viewed by everyone present. Sherlock comes into the room and gestures at George. George moves from Una’s side to dim the lights and the resumes his station.

John checks with the captain who gives him a slight nod. John pushes “play” on his e-book and a video begins to play. Sherlock fiddles with the e-cig in his pocket, knowing full well every detail of the video. He slides down to the floor, resting his back against the side of the chair Greg is lounging in. John joins him, pressing his back against Sherlock’s chest as the screen flickers to life.

“Some of this may jump a little, and there are some things we were unable to uncover. George did an excellent job getting any of this old footage to even this point, so please, let’s thank him.” John states from the floor, his smooth voice carrying throughout the room. They all clap politely for George, who actually blushes a deep red against the light green tint of his skin. His huge eyes blink in wonder and gratitude as he snorts a happy little sound. He waves a tentacle as if to say “carry on” as the sound for the video finally catches up with the pictures on the screen. Everyone’s eyes turn in that direction.

_On the screen is a tall woman with dark ginger hair and smiling brown eyes. She is wearing a long white lab coat and is smoking a real cigarette. She smiles a warm, caring smile down at them through the decades that separate them. There is something immensely “likable” about this woman and a she seems to speak to them all, commanding attention without uttering a single word._

_“I am Doctor Grace Augustine,” she says before taking a drag. The end of the cigarette glows orange and there is silence for a moment as she closes her eyes. “…and this is the Avatar program.” As the camera pans outward, it shows several people of various ages and ethnicities working at computers, writing notes, or otherwise engaged in science-y type pursuits._

_Grace walks through her lab that is filled to the brim with equipment, very recognizable equipment. As she walks, she explains to her audience what is happening in the lab, how she has managed to learn about the native people of Pandora, and even about the little school she has been running. She holds up a couple of photographs from the pockets of her lab coat: two unique beings that are obviously children smile up to the audience with innocence and curiosity.  Their beautiful white teeth are set off nicely by the azure hue of their skin and long, dark hair. It is unsure whether they are boys or girls. She gives the photos one last look before hiding them back in her pocket._

_The camera follows her until she stops in front of what appears to be a giant aquarium filled with some kind of clear liquid. In the liquid floats an adult version of the children from the photograph. This one is male and very naked. His eyes are closed as if he is sleeping. The camera moves around to show the audience another angle of the tank, the figure inside moves its hands and feet a little the way a child would move whilst sleeping in the womb. It zooms in a bit and the audience is treated to a shot of a very relaxed face, closed eyes framed by long, black eyelashes; high cheekbones and a wealth of long black hair._

Sherlock gently taps on John’s shoulder. John moves forward so that the captain may rise from the floor. He stands up and stops the video on the screen, then rewinds it so that everyone is looking at a full side view of the tank.

“Though it may appear to be a living creature; it is not. It is an amalgam of the DNA of the native Pandorians, called the Na’vi, and human DNA. It is more like an icon that lives and breathes; allowing the being whose DNA is infused with it to move freely about the surface of the planet.” He uses his long index finger to point to the sleeping face. “While it is not alive, it is alive. It is less like Frankenstein’s creature than a living costume that can be injured, or killed. It needs to be fed and it needs to rest. You do not wear this costume as much as become a _part_ of it.”

Once again, John is struck by the wistful expression on Sherlock’s face. It is beautiful in its complexity as much as it is frightening in its intensity. It is almost the expression he wears during an orgasm. John pulls his focus back to the captain’s words. The rest of the room is so quiet that he can hear each individual’s respirations. There is a new feeling among them now, one of expectation.

The captain fast-forwards through another section of the video, stopping on a close-up of the sleeping creature. For a moment, he turns towards the screen and studies what he sees there before he speaks. “There are very few of the Na’vi remaining. In order to discover what is killing Pandora, we need to find them. We have the power to save what remains of a once-proud race. My proposal is to use this technology to seek them out, discover why this moon is dying, and either stop it or save the Na’vi in any way possible.”

Around the room, heads nod in agreement. Una is the first to speak. “How many can we make?” She no longer hides her mouth behind her hand, though she does curl her lips around her teeth a little when she speaks.

John answers from the floor where he sits with his legs straight out in front of himself. “We have enough to make two.”

That causes the uproar. Mycroft does not say a word, nor does George, but Greg and Una are instantly angry.

“How can I be expected to protect you if I can’t even get out onto the rest of the planet?” Greg questions Sherlock, his arms outspread.

“We will still need you here.” Sherlock answers him, his focus torn between Greg and the screen of the e-book.

Una begins to ask a question, but Sherlock does not give her the chance. “We can only use human DNA, I’m sorry.” He gives her an expression that lends weight to his words. She sits back, mollified for the moment.  “If we had more time and more material to work with, we could produce several more. We do not. Our last readings from the core showed a marked increase in the decay of the materials making up the foundation of the tectonic plates that cover the surface.”

Greg and Una are still trying to talk at once. John stands up and holds one hand in the air, the universal sign for “quiet.” Greg thumps back against the chair while Una laces her fingers back together in her lap. George reaches over with a tentacle and gives a rather squelchy pat on the arm. She nods to him, but her eyes are on Sherlock.

“We will still need all of you. When Sherlock and I are _in_ the avatars, we will be unable to protect ourselves here. The way I understand it, it’s like going to sleep _here_ and waking up _there_.” He points in the direction of the lab, meaning the wilderness beyond their encampment. “Una, we need you to continue doing what you have been doing: monitoring the life support systems and the overall running of the machinery. George, we need someone monitoring the computers round the clock. Mycroft will help you do that, in shifts and together when need be. You will be our support. We need someone to help collect all of the data we will be sending in. How you organize it will be up to you.”

“And me?” Greg asks, stealing a look at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

“The same thing, Greg, keep doing what you have been doing. If you are willing to pitch in, you can help everyone else. We need to keep the encampment safe, but most of all we need a support team for when we are, well, back in our own bodies.” John explains it so that it no longer seems that he and the captain will be off doing whatever they want: it is a team effort. “We need you guys, all of you. I can’t let him do this alone, but I need to know that the fort is literally going to not fall down around our collective ears while we are out of it and in such vulnerable positions.” John speaks to them all as if they have a choice in the matter.

Greg can sense the wisdom in John’s words. Still, he gets a strange prickly feeling in the back of his mind when he thinks about the whole project. He glances over at Mycroft again, this time not hiding it. He can tell from the admiral’s expression that perhaps he is feeling a bit of the same thing.

There is no more time for questions, however, as John starts a second video, this one staring a young man named Jake Sully.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love.”  
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince


	13. Taking Root

“It is not so much that I think he _can’t_ do it, Mycroft, it is the fact that I think he _wants_ to do it with something that feels an awful lot like an obsession.” Greg’s voice was slightly muffled as he spoke through the re-breather mask. His breath is just slightly faster than normal as he swings the heavy sword in a perfect arc. Its shiny steel blade catches the mishmash of sunlight and shadows from the foliage around them as it hits against the blade that the admiral is holding.

Mycroft stands with his feet shoulder width apart to accept the heavy blow without being knocked to the ground. He can feel the strength of the hit travel down his arms, through his shoulders and down his back. He steps back one step, twirls the sword around in a circle with a supple wrist and meets Greg’s next thrust between them. They stand that way in the afternoon light, in the clearing filled with the strange sounds of exotic bird-like creatures, sizing each other up and waiting. Their gloves are almost brushing against each other between the handles of the two weapons.

Greg gives Mycroft a little nod and then steps back, allowing the tip of the sword to just brush the ground. “That was good.”

Mycroft picks up the thread of the conversation. “John will keep him anchored, Greg. You did not know him before, so you will just have to trust me.” He takes a deep breath and paces a little, rolling his shoulders.

“Aye. Again.” Greg raises his sword as Mycroft moves forward. Metal clashes against metal loud enough that the clearing around them goes completely silent. This time, Greg uses a quick flick of his gloved hand to force the sword out of Mycroft’s grip. He starts and his mouth opens in a perfect “o” when the blade clatters to the ground. Greg lets his weapon fall to his side. He lets out a deep chuckle and offers Mycroft his hand. They shake, holding each other’s grasp just a little too long before they both turn away.

~***~

Mycroft finds his brother standing completely mesmerized beside a huge tank that is now sparkling clean and filled with a clear, viscous fluid. What looks like one hundred bright tubes run through the liquid to be hooked up to one of several machines that are beeping in time with one another. A faint blue light is hung up overhead, giving the entire thing the look of some strange, empty aquarium. Another tank stands beside it.

Sherlock leans against the tank, one broad palm against the glass and the other hanging limply at his side. Mycroft moves beside him and takes in the sight of a tiny blastocyst five days grown. It is already a deep sapphire color and pulsing faintly with partial life. Mycroft has had his doubts about the entire project, but now? Seeing his brother so immersed in the whole thing has changed his mind. If anyone could be strong enough to attempt a seventy-five year old experiment, then he would want no one else but Sherlock.

Very slowly, Mycroft reaches out a lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Sherlock turns to him with a strange expression. His green eyes are pale jade and there is a softness about his face that Mycroft has never before seen. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a quiet rumble. “That is part of me.” Sherlock points towards the blastocyst.

“Yes.” Mycroft answers, carefully removing his hand. This is a seriously unexpected turn of events. He tilts his head a little and cocks an eyebrow. “Sherlock, it is never meant to be alive. It is a mere vehicle that needs a pilot…”

“I am fully aware of that, Mycroft.” Sherlock spins on the balls of his feet, his entire posture suddenly tense, wary, and protective. His body blocks all sight of the ball of cells floating in the tank. “It is just…” he trails off, waving a hand in the air as if trying to pick out the correct term. “It is something unique, something I never thought I would see…”

“Sherlock. Do not get overly attached…”

Sherlock snarls at his brother. “Really, Mycroft? What kind of idiot do you believe me to be? I am fascinated with the whole experiment. Growing an entire being….it doesn’t matter that it is basically a costume full of blood vessels and organs, dammit! It still breathes and eats and shows all of the other attributes of life!”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft is now sternly pleading. Sherlock’s eyes are wild. He reaches out to lay a comforting hand back on his brother’s shoulder but it is not-so-gently slapped away.

“I am not overly attached!” Captain Holmes growls as he attempts to turn away. Mycroft hand tightens on his shoulder and the other one comes up to tightly grip his upper arm.

“Sherlock, stop.” For a second, it seems that he is going to break out of Mycroft’s grasp. He is looking past Mycroft’s shoulder when he notices that John has entered the lab. John takes in the situation and hangs back, waiting to see if he is needed. All of the fight goes out of Sherlock and he stills, leaning against the tank. Mycroft knows this trick so he does not let go. “Tell me.”

Sherlock gazes up at his brother, now that he is slumped against the warm glass if he looks straight ahead he will be studying Mycroft’s chin, so he has no choice. Mycroft’s hands are firm and unyielding. Sherlock knows when to back down; he may be the biggest dog in the pack normally, though he knows frightfully well what Mycroft is capable of.

“I have no desire to destroy it.” Sherlock murmurs, lowering his eyes to stare at the toes of his brother’s ultra glossy boots.

“What?” John asks from behind them. He walks around to Mycroft’s side and studies Sherlock.

Sherlock makes an attempt to speak, to explain what he is thinking. John knows full well that he will not do that around his sibling. “I’ve got this, Mycroft.”

Mycroft lets go of his brother and backs away from them. Seeing that John does indeed have the situation under control, he heads back to the cabin.

John waits until the admiral has departed before asking any questions; he is pretty sure of the answer to this one, but he’s got to hear it from Sherlock’s own mouth. “What do you mean you _have no desire to destroy it_? Sherlock, why do you think that?”

“It is going to be beautiful, John. You will meld with your second body. I am not so sure it will work for me.” Sherlock finally looks up at John. John is completely taken aback by the lost look in his eyes. Is this the same person he fought for the Time Gate with? What is happening here?

“Sherlock, maybe this whole thing is a bad idea.” John rests his back against the glass beside Sherlock, crossing his arms over his chest. The lab around them is quiet except for the beeping of the machines; even George has finished his arduous task of updating seven decades worth of information into the new system. The lights are all slightly dim and night is falling outside.

“No.” Sherlock says, his voice strong once again. He dips his head and presses a soft kiss to John’s mouth. “No.” His eyes grab John’s and hold them. “No. I can work through this, whatever this is. The mission will continue as planned. We have a purpose here and I will not let my own failings keep us from succeeding.”

John rests one hand against Sherlock’s hip. “Explain it to me, Sherlock, so that I can understand.”

Sherlock’s eyes seem to gaze inward, going deep into his mind where no one else can possibly hope to follow. “I have never been a part of something so beautiful. I am afraid that I will destroy it before we even get started.”

John frowns. “What even gives you that idea?”

Sherlock actually shrugs. That is as close to _I don’t know_ as John knows he’s going to get. “Look, Sherlock, I think you are pretty much exhausted. You have been working on this thing almost non-stop for days. Let’s say we have an early night tonight.” John considers the last week of falling asleep and waking up to find that Sherlock did not even close his eyes for two hours. He tries not to let himself whine about it, though it is starting to get to him.

“Alright, John.” John lets his arm rest around Sherlock’s waist as he steers him towards the cabin and their bed.

~***~

At what would pass for three AM in Earth time, Sherlock is once again to be found in front of the tank in the lab. The ball of cells has gone from the size of a thumbprint to the size of a baseball in several hours. He knows that its growth would be accelerated, but actually seeing it is absolutely stupendous. He is completely enthralled, leaning against the glass with his nose pressed against it like a little kid staring into the shop windows dreaming of Christmas morning.

He has pulled one of the chairs over, so that the growing ball of cells is almost directly in front of him. He runs his fingers across the temperate glass, his eyes full of wonder and the throb of excitement pulsing through his veins a very different feeling from the rush of orgasm riding on the cusp of the way he feels about John from a few hours ago. He sighs and rests his forehead against the glass, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could just _tell_ John the way he feels. After all of this time, especially when they have been along for months and months--why is it so difficult to say?

 _After the mission_ , he tells himself, his words inaudible to anyone except him as they escape on a sigh. If he can complete this mission successfully, he will give John more to be proud of, give him more than just a rank and a life out gathering research. It is not that John has asked for any of those things, rather that Sherlock feels he needs to uphold some unspoken end of an unmade deal. John gives him so much, it is only right.  He stares at the blastocyst, so completely unaware of anything else in the moment and so misses it when John steps into the light for just a second, a worried expression on his face as he turns back into the darkness of the sleeping cabin.


	14. Amazing

John shakes off the tiny bit of worry that has wormed its way into his brain as he climbs back into their one-side-cold bed. He stretches out on his back and rests his head on the palms of his hands, absentmindedly pushing away the rather tough pillow. He gives up sleep as a bad job, instead concentrating on the image that his lover has just presented to him unknowingly. It is so unlike Sherlock to be unaware that he is being observed, especially by John. Normally, one can feel the other’s presence when they are rooms or even light years away from one another. He considers whether he should be concerned with Sherlock’s obliviousness to him. Of course, it could simply be that Sherlock is experiencing a whole new set of emotions, and they all seem to center around a singular mass of azure cells floating in that tank in the lab.

John has one, too, though, somehow the idea does not seem to fascinate him nearly as much. He knows himself: the fascination will come when he wakes up wearing the costume, as he has come to think of it. He is actually looking forward to the first day that they can finally explore the wilderness on their own, sans masks, sans gloves, nothing but themselves. No matter what is going through Sherlock’s mind, at least they will be together. He closes his eyes against the dullness of the shadowed rafters in the ceiling.

He lets his thoughts ramble for a bit, finally settling on a memory from before he answered the Admiral’s want-ad. He remembers finally feeling like his life could mean something again, that the empty sound of loneliness that never left his ears could be hushed. He thinks about his sister’s histrionics when he told her he was taking the job, the foolish way she cried and clutched at his shoulders.  It was all foolish; and he knew it, she knew it, too. Of course, it was absolutely the truth that they had no one else but each other after the past couple of wars on Earth. He has not spoken to Harriet since that day; he never even sent her a notice that he had made it aboard the _Neo-Tethys_ in one piece. She has never tried to contact him, either; and there is no possible way that she did not see or hear at least something about the Time Gate. Not when the information was _everywhere_. He is curious as to whether she even knows about his promotion to Ambassador or if she knows about his very obvious relationship with Captain Holmes.

Unbidden, the constantly curious look in Sherlock’s glossy peridot eyes appear in his mind. He contemplates the depths of what he feels for the other man, never questioning it, always knowing that even without the words that the emotion is returned. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands and sits up. John swings his legs over the side of the bed and moves swiftly across the floor, fully intent on marching into the lab and dragging Sherlock back to bed cave-man style. His plans are completely waylaid, however, when he walks directly into the man’s chest with a _thud_ and a surprised croak that he will swear did not come out of him. He gets his bearings and steps back, placing his hands on Sherlock’s forearms.

In the dim light from the dirty pane of the small window of their room, John can see the flash of emerald in Sherlock’s irises staring down into his face: the reality is so much better than the vision from a moment ago that spurred him forward. He has no control over the exhale that pulls itself out of his chest. Sherlock notices the sound and dips his head, one of his long-fingered hands making a web over John’s bare shoulder before he kisses him. Suddenly their tongues are fighting for dominance and Sherlock is the cave-man dragging his lover towards the bed. He pushes John down into the mattress as he clambers over, straddling the muscular thighs with his own before his fingers drift southward, dipping gently into the waistband of John’s pajamas. John’s hips roll upward and he tightens his grip about Sherlock’s pelvis, grinding them together. Sherlock pulls away, his mouth still close to the shell of John’s ear with a soft whisper: “It’s almost over.” When he speaks so closely, the rasp of his stubble is clearly audible against the skin of the side of his face. 

It takes John a moment to understand what Sherlock is talking about through the haze of want fogging his brain. His hands go to the captain’s arms and he anchors himself long enough to get his thoughts in order. “What is almost over, Sherlock?” He is quite proud of the fact that his voice sounds somewhat normal.

“The growth period of the avatars, John; probably no more than two or three days.” Sherlock’s gaze moves from John’s eyes inward. John’s hand slides up Sherlock’s arm and cups his chin, forcing those marvelous eyes to return to him. Weak pink daylight is slowly seeping into the room through the window high above the bed, casting deep shadows under Sherlock’s eyes and highlighting his prominent cheekbones. John sighs, hugs Sherlock close to him and rolls over so that they are side by side.

“Rest, Sherlock.” He says as Sherlock’s eyes slip closed.

~***~

“I am just saying that I think it might be a bit dangerous, John.” Greg sits across the dining table from the ambassador, nursing a cup of what is passing for coffee at the moment.

“Dangerous, how?” John queries, taking a deep drink from his own cup; he makes a slight face against the bitter brew, though he is too polite to say anything. George is hooting softly as he works in the kitchen behind them. He sets the cup down on the table, resting his hands beside it. “That’s the second time either you, Mycroft or Una has said something to me to that effect. Now, please, for the sake of my sanity, explain.”

Greg does not pull any punches. “It seems like the captain may be getting too _emotionally_ involved in the project, John. Maybe it will cause him to lose sight of what’s important here. Lookit what happened to that Sully chap.”

John rolls that around in his mind for a moment. The sight of Sherlock’s face last night and the look on his face when he first discovered the metal caskets to be operational flash through his memory like a slide show. He is not going to be put off, however. “Greg, right now Sherlock is the only one with enough knowledge to make both parts of this mission operational. I understand these fears, though I believe that may be unfounded…well, mostly. Will it help if I say I’ll be there with him the entire time? I will keep your concerns in mind.”

Greg just nods into his cup, taking another sip and then pushing it away from him on the table. His expression clearly says _that is foul_. George sounds so happy to be helping out that he knows they will all just grin and bear it.

“How long, then?” He asks.

“From what he said early this morning, it could be as little as two or three days.”

Greg whistles. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

“This is what he does, Greg. He either invents what he needs or adapts whatever is present. It is thanks to him that our re-breather masks aren’t as heavy as the originals. Trust me, I had that thing on for five minutes and I thought my head was going to split from the pressure.”

George scoots into the dining area, his tentacles making the slightest dragging noises across the floor. He stands between the two men and rests a tentacle on each shoulder. George hoots a bit and then makes a funny sound that seems like a cross between a snort and a hum.

Greg nods in understanding and turns to explain to John when the Odal hooks the two mugs and returns them to the kitchen. “He says that he cares for the captain, too, and wants to be of help.”

John smiles and turns in his chair to face the Odal. “George, you are a big help. If it had not been for your speedy data-entry skills, the project would not be as far along as it is now.” George makes another satisfied sound and John stands. “Well, I need to get out of here for a while. Fancy a spar?”

Greg grins, his beautiful smile flashing from ear to ear. “Absolutely!” He says and claps John on the back as they move towards the tunnel.

~***~

The sparring session goes well and they return to the lab sweaty but relaxed and confident of their skills. John was able to disarm Greg twice, though Greg was unable to get past John at all. John is only thinking of a shower as he tugs off his mask, though the sight that greets him is enough to stop him in his tracks and take his brain completely offline.

The bodies of the avatars have grown ridiculously fast. Sherlock’s chemical accelerants have completely eclipsed their expectations. Sherlock stands with his back to the room, his hands clasped behind his back and seems to be in quiet contemplation of the almost-grown Na’vi body floating in front of him. If John did not know what the avatar is supposed to look like, he would never see the tiny missing details of finger and toe nails, eye brows and the intensity of the marks against the blue skin. Fascinated, he moves towards the body in the other tank.

It is like peering into some otherworldly mirror: his facial structure encased in azure skin with a long black que floating down the avatar’s back. He studies the hair for a moment, intrigued to see what appears to be a set of tentacles at the very end of the que. They are waving softly in the liquid the body is floating in. It is hypnotically beautiful and strange and wonderful all at the same time. He tears himself away from his avatar to stand beside Sherlock. He gazes at the familiar expression on the body in front of him and then turns to see the original staring down at him. For the rest of his life John will try anything in his power to never erase that look off his lover’s face. It is a thrilled expression of amazement, wonder, pride and perhaps a little trepidation of what the future holds. It is innocent and knowing in the same sense that he can absolutely _feel_ Sherlock’s heart beating as if there were only one between them.

“Amazing.” He whispers reverently.


	15. Awake and Dreaming

>   
>  _Lying close to you feeling your heart beating_   
>  _And I'm wondering what you're dreaming,_   
>  _Wondering if it's me you're seeing_   
> 
> 
> _-I Don't Want to Miss A Thing (C) Aerosmith_

Sherlock awakens slowly as if from an anesthetically-fueled dream. His mouth is dry and it feels like there is cotton batting stuffed into his ears. His mind is muddled and when he shakes his head it does nothing to clear the fog. It feels like he has been sleeping for years. He kicks one leg straight out and a female voice somewhere behind him says “oh.”The sheet draped over him feels like a weight that needs to come off _right now_.

His mind is buzzing with the intensity of a busy beehive; his hearing is keen, so sharp he can hear the sound of tapping fingertips against the keys on someone’s e-book and the faint tinkling noise of the gold decorations in Una’s hair. He shakes his head rapidly from side to side before his body acts of its own accord pulling him to his feet. There is a thumping sound and a slight feeling of pain below his waist. He finally opens his eyes and everything—every single thing—comes into immediate, bright, sharp-edged focus. So much so that he actually has to lower his eyelids to block out some of the light.  Overwhelmed by massive amounts of new sensory input, he snaps his eyes shut for a second and his hands go to his head. The heartbeat in his ears is strong and unfamiliar: a bass drum solo when he is used to hearing a snare.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, Una and Greg are standing in the room watching him with expressions that tilt between fear and surprise. Una reaches out a hand to him, _why do they look so small?_ Their bedroom is spinning and he is beginning to drift away on the millions of tiny details becoming so clear to these new eyes, ears and skin.

He is shaking his head, turning away from them towards the door and then he is running, only barely taking into account that his usual ten strides to the door have become half that number. The door slams open under an unfamiliar hand and he is outside and he is running and breathing the atmosphere of this strange new world that suddenly he just can’t take any more and everything is green and bright and yellow and there is a pulse and he can _feel_ the fucking planet!

Then he just stops moving and falls to the ground as if he has been shot. He stretches out full length on his back in the velvety grass, arms and legs as far out as they will go and he is speechless and startled and there is something; a pulse in the air that he feels as if he is holding his lover to his chest, a heartbeat under his fingertips; it is reaching out to him and holding him in its arms and it is beautiful and there are tears, tears? What is this?

The spinning sensation begins anew, forcing Sherlock to close his eyes again. For a moment he remembers Una closing the lid of the casket over his head and shutting his eyes against the harsh ugly lights and then waking up… and…and

He clambers fast to his feet and laughs! It was a success! He did it, he managed to take an old project and breathe new life into it! He is jumping into the air, one hand in a fist, and “Yes!”

John is there with him as ever: even in an unfamiliar skin he is still so much _John_. He stands quietly, watching Sherlock get his bearings on the new sensations pouring in from all sides. His arms are folded over his blue-skinned chest and there is an amused look under his striped features. Sherlock freezes in place and is in front of John in milliseconds, his fingers and palms touching John’s face carefully, slowly, as if to memorize him all over again. John smiles, white teeth slightly pointed, warm gold irises now filled with joy. He inhales deeply, feeling the rush of clean air in his lungs; he is now touching Sherlock’s face, pulling the long black que over Sherlock’s shoulder to examine it. The hairs are silky and strong, hiding tiny tentacles that wave gently just at the end of the que.

Sherlock moves around John slowly, gently picking up his tail and laughing as John twitches it. John lets go Sherlock’s que as he laughs up towards the marvelously pristine blue sky. This new skin is more sensitive to everything; the soft breeze that passes over them is as a soft as a mother’s hands on her newborn babe. John turns his head to the side, watching Sherlock’s curiosity almost brimming over. The sound of their laughter fills the clearing. He turns on the spot as if displaying new clothing, allowing himself time to adjust to the new sensations and the heightened senses. He is now more aware of Pandora, of the wildlife and his lover than he has ever been. If Sherlock is feeling even half of what he is experiencing he can imagine the overload.

They remain that way for a time, exploring the new bodies they have found themselves in. Sherlock only had a smidgen of the idea of what this was going to be like: the reality is so much better than his theories. He is cataloging and saving everything as fast as the information is picked up by his synapses. John is not as overwhelmed, instead choosing to just _feel_ and accept what his senses are telling him. There will be plenty of time to catalog all of these sensations later.

Una, Greg, and Mycroft watch from the window, George from the monitors and every being finds themselves completely caught up in the moment. Finally, Mycroft touches the ear piece he is wearing and speaks Sherlock’s name.

Outside the two men turn in unison towards the lab. They tap their earpieces at the same time. Their voices come through to Mycroft and George loud and clear. “Mycroft.”

“You know what to do.” Mycroft raises a hand and waves them off with his fingers.

John and Sherlock grin like teenagers making off with the starter to dad’s shuttle craft and take off in a full-out run through the wilderness. As they run they are assaulted with new sounds, new colors, and new scents of the forest around them. What seemed before to be dull green and brown foliage is now bright; small animals scurry under the brush, the only mark of their passing the scant noises that they can now hear. They run until they hit a clearing. Sherlock stands in the center of it, speechless. After a time, he points up towards the canopy around them, showing John the network of thick branches.

“There lies our road, John.” Sherlock beams in John’s direction. John watches him for a moment then decides that he needs to own that smile, just for a little while.

“Sherlock, turn your ear piece off.” Sherlock’s eyes move from the branches overhead to John’s face. His expression softens, he narrows his feline-like eyes and suddenly he is a predator dressed in a loincloth. Bright sunlight bathes them in white light tinged with the slightest amount of cyan. John flicks off his own communicator, completely ignoring the slight squawk of protest from Mycroft.

“John.” Sherlock’s familiar voice is carried along the same timbre, even through the voice box of the avatar. His head is slightly bent as he closes in on John. John gives him a crooked smile and stalks in the same direction. They reach for each other, there in the center of the clearing, surrounded by clear air and bright sunlight. Every touch says that even in unfamiliar bodies, they will always know each other.

When Sherlock dips his head he finds to his surprise that he and John are looking directly into each other’s eyes. John gives him a smile and kisses him softly. Even with just the hint of touch to his lips, Sherlock’s nerve endings are on fire. He runs his hands down John’s bare back and John hisses between clenched teeth, finally getting a hint of what the captain has been feeling. It is good, though, and they slide towards the soft ground, their limbs entwined already.

~***~

“Dammit!”

Uncharacteristically, Mycroft tears the earpiece out and launches it across the lab where it pings off of the wall and makes a rather un-dramatic _plink_ to the floor. He tenses up, realizing that perhaps that was a really stupid thing to do. He hears, rather than sees, Una leaving the area. There is a soft snort from George as the Odal begins quietly tapping the keys of his computer, deftly trying to get a lock on Sherlock’s and John’s actual positions. Mycroft tries really hard to keep his inner smirking teenager at bay; it is difficult sometimes not to feel the slightest cutting edge of the knife of jealousy. He quickly gains control of himself, turning back towards the window when Greg walks up behind him.

“Mycroft?” Greg asks. He sounds normal, though there is the smooth hint of something else in his voice.

Mycroft faces him, not quite quick enough to keep what he is really experiencing out of his eyes.

Greg’s brown eyes harden and he frowns at the Admiral. He tilts his head just a little as he clears his throat. He will return to the business at hand but he will not forget what he just saw. Underneath the cold flame of jealousy there was something else.

“Mycroft, George found them. He says he will not spy on their, er, intimate moments, but he will be able to track them, even if they turn their ear pieces off.”

Mycroft nods his head. They walk through the lab to the two gleaming caskets where Sherlock and John lie sleeping. Mycroft watches the monitors for a moment. Una sits between them in a chair with a book in her lap. Mycroft gives her a nod as well. As he passes the machine his brother reclines in, he lets his fingers brush over the smooth metal.

“He will be fine, Mycroft.” Greg states from behind him. Mycroft refuses to acknowledge that Greg startled him. He glosses over it. “Dinner? We will be switching with George and Una in about eight hours, so we might as well take a break.”

“Alright. I’ll clean up if you cook.” Greg offers.

“Fine.” Mycroft does not mean to sound as snappish as he does to his own ears. Greg does not say anything, merely follows him to the kitchen.

~***~

Greg finishes the last of the dishes and carries two mugs of steaming tea to the table. He and Mycroft have been talking off and on for the last hour, though to him it feels like the Admiral is speaking _around_ what he really wants to say. After all this time, Greg thinks that even if they have not managed to become friends, at least they are comrades; and comrades trust each other. He pulls his chair out and settles into it, sipping at his mug.

“Mycroft, are we friends?” He takes another sip.

“What an odd question, Greg.” Mycroft wraps a hand around his mug, pulling it closer towards him but does not lift it to his mouth.

“It just seems like you are talking to me as if I am one of the thousands of faceless crew members aboard your ship and not someone who has been at your side for the past weeks.”

“I apologize.” Mycroft answers.

“No you don’t.” Greg gives him a smirk over his cup.

“No, I really don’t.” The admiral takes a sip, then a second one before setting the mug back on the table.

“Is there a reason for that?” Greg counters.

Mycroft sighs. “I suppose not.”

“Then why can’t we talk about what is eating at you instead of pretending not to see the big white Qualric in the room?”If nothing else, Greg Lestrade is blunt.

“It has never been easy for me, Greg.” Mycroft runs one hand through his hair and rolls his shoulders.

“Alright, I can buy that. Let’s try this: tell me one thing you are concerned about with this mission and we will go from there. If you are uncomfortable, tell me and I will go away.”

“I don’t want you to go away.” Mycroft mutters. The temperature in the room changes instantly.

“What?” Greg asks, setting his cup down after he almost dumps the hot liquid in his lap. Though his uniform trousers will wick away the mess, he would prefer not to have the surprise of it all, especially right now.

Mycroft sighs and looks down at his fingernails. “I have enjoyed spending time with you, Greg. I feel like I have learned from you. I appreciate the way you continue to keep talking to me, even when you feel that I am being a complete dick to my brother, if I may quote you.”

Greg can feel his face heat up. He remembers very well stating the very same thing to Una a few days ago when he was helping her with the caskets. He studies his tea for a moment before letting his eyes wander back to Mycroft’s face. He may as well ‘fess up now. “I won’t apologize, either, Mycroft. You were being a dick to Sherlock, and John, too for that matter.”

“I know.”

“Then why waste all that time bickering with them?” Greg is curious, not accusing.

“Greg, Sherlock is an excellent Captain, though he fights against his rank. He prefers to dress down the majority of the time instead of following the formality of IA protocol.”

Greg nods, hoping Mycroft will continue.

“If it were up to him, he would simply be gallivanting about the galaxy doing research and experiments that would benefit no one. When I talked him into enlistment, he was angry at me and said that people would only look at his accomplishments because of me.” Mycroft sips his tea. “However, that was only true right in the beginning. Since that time, he has proven himself to be an excellent warrior, a conscientious leader and apparently, one of heck of a lover to a certain John Watson. In the middle of it all, he is given free rein to explore other planets, make contact with other races, and hell, even other _times_.”

“I see.” Greg says, drinking from his mug.

“Indeed.” Mycroft answers, finishing the last of his tea.

Greg ponders this information for a moment then cuts through all the bull. “You obviously care about your brother, enough that you put yourself and your career on the line for him.”

Mycroft nods.

“You think he has skills that he uses to provide answers to other being’s problems and his research tends to solve all sorts of puzzles. Just like the way he reinvented the re-breather masks. I think, maybe, that you are a bit jealous of your little brother, Mycroft.”

Mycroft inhales sharply. For an instant, Greg is afraid he has gone too far. He watches the admiral carefully; and when Mycroft seems to relax a little, he sighs with relief. Greg throws the dregs from his cup down his throat before he says anything else. The silence between them is lighter now. “Am I even close?” He asks.

“Yes.” Mycroft answers.

“Never mind the skills and the intelligence, correct? Because you are easily as intelligent as your brother, equally if not more so the leader; so it must be something else.” Greg considers the difference between the two men, weighing the pros and cons of what he is going to say next. Well, if he is going to jump in with both feet, he might as well do it now. “It’s John. Mycroft, you are jealous of your brother’s relationship with John.”

Mycroft does not say anything for a time. Greg lets him stew on those words while he contemplates his fingernails, their mugs, the ceiling; anything that is not the admiral.

The “yes” that falls from Mycroft’s lips is so soft that Greg almost doesn’t catch it. Mycroft does not say anything else, though Greg can just about read in the other man a history that has never been brought to light. When Mycroft stands, Greg does, too. The admiral remains silent as Greg wishes him a good night and sits back down. He has too many thoughts rushing through his mind to even make a token attempt at sleep, so for the time being he will just try to work out the enigma of the man that is Admiral Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I thanked all of you wonderful readers lately? You all matter, whether you leave comments or kudos or just read in passing and think "eh." It's all fine and I'm glad you stopped by!


	16. Family Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this one being 1-so long, I wanted to get the background information in there for those who may not have seen the movie, and 2-taking so long to get it posted. Some other, more flowery prose got in my way and then I had to come up with some Na'vi characters and they simply would not come together until tonight. I am happy with them now, I hope you will be, too. 
> 
> Also-lobstergirl, this one is for you because *awesome* is not a good enough word, let me show you my gratitude!
> 
> To everyone else who is following: thank you, you make my dark days much brighter!

> _I want to stand with you on a mountain,_
> 
> _I want to bathe with you in the sea,  
> _
> 
> _I want to live like this forever...  
> _
> 
> _until the sky falls down on me.  
> _
> 
> _Truly, Madly, Deeply  (C) Savage Garden  
> _

 

“Sherlock, look at this.” They are out in the jungle canopy far from the lab and John stands on a limb backlit by the sunset. To Sherlock it is eerily reminiscent of the times they were up in the bright green and yellow trees on Bellatrix. He is happy, though, feeling light as air as he scrambles across the thick branches towards John, his tail held out perpendicular to the ground for added stability. He stands proudly next to John, his gaze following the other man’s. They are looking out over a wide valley that has been the scene of violence at some point in the past. Twilight’s shadows are encroaching upon their visibility, though they can still make out enough details to tell the story of what happened here.

To their right is what remains of a huge tree. Sherlock sees clearly at a glance that it was once full of life; indeed, a clan of the native people of Pandora once made it their home. It is gnarled and bent, but most of all it lies on its side where it was pushed over by great machines seventy five years ago. Grass and ivy grows around and on it, though it is a forlorn sight by any stretch of the imagination, the ebony and gray ash taking away from the beauty of the remaining life still in the plant. John shifts his feet a little, his tail waving in the slight breeze that is stroking the foliage behind them. Soft scurrying sounds can be discerned as other creatures go about their lives among the branches above, below and behind them.

John and Sherlock remain standing still, their eyes roving the valley below them, each lost in their own thoughts until they are brought into the present by a loud, harsh scream. Just above their heads a huge creature is coming in for a landing like a missile. Its cry cuts through the dying light like some sort of banshee wailing like death is imminent. John freezes where he stands until Sherlock hauls him backwards with one large hand against John’s muscular shoulder. John lands against Sherlock’s chest with a thump just as the massive four-winged creature lands on the ground hard enough to shake the tree they are standing in.

A deep male voice cries out in an unknown language. Sherlock taps John’s ear and they both touch the button on their ear pieces that will allow them to communicate with the newcomer.

“ _Uniitirantokx_!I can sense you! Come out to where I can see you.” The voice is one that brooks no argument.

Since this is exactly what they have been waiting for, John and Sherlock step in unison back out onto the branch they had been using as an observation deck minutes before. “ _Dream walker_ ” Sherlock states under his breath to John, “Do not speak until you are spoken to.”

John nods his head, leaving the “aye captain” unspoken.

“Why are you here?” The man enquires as he dismounts the massive animal. John decides that it looks a little bit like a massive T-rex and an iguana had a baby and then gave it four wings and a lizard’s skin. He read about the _ikran_ in the files and even saw some photos, though they pale in comparison to the living creature with the long, tooth-filled beak on the ground just below them. Its base color is tan and it has a red wattle under its beak. At the tips of its primary wings are wicked-looking, hooked claws.

The Na’vi stands on the ground looking up at them with his feet spread apart and arms crossed over his chest. “I ask you: why are you here?” When he switches to English, his accent is strong but the words are flawless. Sherlock and John share a look of surprise. The Na’vi just shakes his head and mumbles to himself. His ikran turns its head towards him and gives him a gentle push with its beak. He pats the animal, mumbling soft words as he does so. Finally, he steps back as the ikran spreads its wings and glides effortlessly into the air.

“Join me.” He waves a single hand into the air, blatantly signifying that the avatars should come down.

~***~

Back at the lab, Mycroft and Greg are watching a monitor filled with a topographical map of the area in which George’s tracking devices show John and Sherlock as red dots marked with a “C” and an “A.” George and Una are off duty for the time being, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone. Greg has been asking intelligent questions about the avatar program, and as Mycroft explains it to him they have found themselves with their chairs pulled right alongside each other.

“The avatars are best described as a human/Na’vi hybrid made to be driven by a human mind. They only work with the human whose DNA was used in forming the embryo.” Mycroft’s eyes sweep over the monitor as he speaks, checking and double-checking for anything that could spell trouble for the captain and the ambassador. He uses his hands when he is making a strong point, sometimes even running his fingers through the dark ginger waves of his hair.

Greg nods his head, too enthralled in watching Mycroft’s eyes and hands to speak.

“They are psionically connected, you see.” Mycroft turns from the screen to see if Greg is keeping up.

“No, I don’t know what that means. I understand there is some sort of mental link between the John and Sherlock there” he points towards the metal caskets behind them, “and the John and Sherlock there,” he points to the monitor, “though I really don’t comprehend _how_ it works.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to launch into what Greg knows for certain will be a wonderful explanation that he will not understand more than a few words of. He holds up his hand, palm facing Mycroft. “You don’t have to explain it. I don’t need to know how it works in order to understand that it does.”

“Alright.” Mycroft tilts his head just slightly. “What else would interest you, then?”

Greg leans back into his chair with a slight groan. It has been a long day and he’s ready to take a break. He eyes the tiny clock on the corner of the monitor: two more hours before George and Una take over. As much as he thinks he really could sit here and listen to Mycroft talk for hours, Mother Nature is calling. “Give me a mo, let me grab us both a cuppa and then you can tell me about the history of the avatar program.”

Mycroft smiles, faint lines appearing to frame his dark blue eyes. “That would be fine, thank you.” He turns his attention back to the monitor as Greg moves towards the tunnel and the cabin beyond. Just as he passes the admiral, however, his hand rests on Mycroft’s shoulder for a brief moment. Mycroft finds that he does not hate it.

~***~

“May I ask your name?” Sherlock says to the Na’vi. Everything about the man is in keeping with the facts Sherlock has gleaned about the people, except for the slight tinge of amber in his otherwise black que. The captain notes the man’s tension, probably nervous about meeting a dream walker, possibly he has never seen one before.

The Na’vi studies the two avatars closely as if searching them to ascertain whether they are a threat. After a moment, he drops his arms to his sides and gestures for them to follow him. He leads them a little ways towards the tree, finally settling on the ground with his legs stretched out in front of him. He is fully striped from head to tail to the tops of his six-toed feet.

John watches the Na’vi man, sizing him up and deciding that he is no more threat to them as they are to him. When the man gestures for them to follow, he naturally steps in front of the captain. It only takes two strides for Sherlock to catch up with him. “John.” He says, smiling and then reaching out to tug at John’s elbow. They share a look before realizing that the Na’vi is watching them over his shoulder. John wonders if the blue skin of his avatar blushes the same way as his human skin.

The Na’vi makes a noise in the back of his throat, not really clearing it, but enough to know that he saw what passed between them. He is polite, though, and does not mention it. They make themselves comfortable on the ground on either side of the Na’vi. It is then that Sherlock speaks.

“I am called Le’tay.”

“Captain Holmes,” Sherlock indicates himself. “Ambassador Watson.” He gestures with an open hand to John.

Le’tay nods his understand. “You are partners?”

“Yes.” John answers for them.

Le’tay gives a wide smile then waves his hands towards the tree behind himself. “This was once Home Tree. Do you know the story?”

“Yes, though it would do as well to hear it again.” Sherlock requests, then leans back on his hands to listen to the story of a man named Jake Sully.

~***~

“What are they doing?” Greg asks as he hands Mycroft his steaming mug.

“They are speaking with one of the locals.” Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at the monitor.

Greg chuckles. “Which one appears to be doing the speaking?”

“Apparently the Na’vi. I was listening until he said his name is Le’tay and then asked if John and Sherlock were partners. He seems harmless enough, though I think I know who he is.”

“And?” Greg tries one of Mycroft’s patented eyebrow lifts on for size. It just feels funny so he takes a sip of his tea to hide it.

Mycroft’s mouth quirks up at the sides. No one ever attempts to emulate him; it’s really quite hilarious but somehow flattering at the same time. He leans in towards Greg until their shoulders are touching. Greg goes tense for a moment, then he relaxes, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other holding his mug. “Go on, then.” He uses the mug to make a full stop at the end of his statement, almost saluting the admiral.

“First you have to understand that the original avatars were grown from the donor’s and the Na’vi DNA in labs on Earth.” He pauses to sip his tea. “They were then shipped to Pandora as embryos. When they landed they were half-grown bodies. This occurred over the five-year span of time it took for the ship carrying them to reach Pandora from Earth.”

“It is much faster now.” Greg supplies.

“Quite. Now it does not take five years to grow them, either, as I believe my brother proved to us.”

“Why were they developing the avatars to begin with, admiral?” Greg queries, his eyes scanning the monitor in front of them. The dots had not moved. Apparently, they were having some sort of meeting. Greg only half wishes that he could have at least seen the ikran up close.

“The program was developed originally to supply a body that could withstand Pandora’s atmosphere for the miners sent there to obtain a mineral they called _unobtanium_.”

Greg snorts. “That’s a ridiculous name.”

Mycroft shrugs. “I do not disagree with you. However ridiculous it’s name, it was desired enough to almost kill an entire race.” He drains his cup and sets it out of the way next to the monitor. “Still talking, then.”

Greg finishes his own tea, sets the mug down on the floor next to him and settles back into his chair.

“If you will, believe that the original avatar’s cost five billion American dollars at that time.”

“Damn. They must not have made too many then.”

“From the information I have at the present, counting the two that Sherlock grew here, there have been twenty two made.”

Greg whistles. “Okay.”

They are silent for a few moments, contemplating the monitor. John is still seated near Le’tay, though Sherlock is pacing in circles around them. He is apparently listening to what the Na’vi is telling him, as his dot on the monitor is circling slowly, not the manic pacing he is capable of executing when he is nervous or excited about something.

“So, then, who was Jake Sully, Mycroft?”

“Jake was the twin brother of one of the scientists involved in designing the avatar program and ultimately finding a way to make peace with the native peoples of Pandora. Tommy Sully perished while en route on his first trip to the moon. Since they shared so much of their DNA, Jake was invited to take his brother’s place.” Mycroft’s eyes shifted towards the monitor again, obviously thinking about his own sibling’s place in all of this. “Jake was a former marine, a paraplegic confined to a wheelchair after one of the many wars that were always taking place on Earth then.”

“I can see the attraction.” Greg said softly.

“Yes. He would later go on to become a hero during some of the first battles for Pandora that took place between the indigenous people and the mining company.”

“The mining company had the capability of waging war? What, were all the miners moonlighting as soldiers, too?”

“Close enough, Greg. The mining company hired a massive number of ex-military mercenaries, many of which were battle-hardened and others who were just looking for a change.”

“That’s enough, I guess.”

A comfortable silence falls between them before Greg speaks again. They can hear the clicking of the oxygen pump and the beeps of the monitors watching over John and Sherlock. “What happened to Jake?”

“Ah. Now that is where the information becomes sketchy after all this time. The priestess, or possibly wise-woman of the Na’vi somehow found a way to merge Jake’s mind with the avatar body. He and a Na’vi woman became what they called ‘a mated pair’ and it is after that point that we lose him to history.”

“Wow.”

Before Mycroft can answer, Una and George are sliding and walking into the room. “Ready to take a break, admiral?” Una asks.

“Absolutely. Thank you.” Mycroft nods towards the two aliens that he has come to consider friends and comrades. He heads to the tunnel, Greg on his heels.

~***~

Le’tay is watching Sherlock pace in a small circle around them as he speaks of his family. He is referring to the heroics of a man he is referring to as Grandfather when Sherlock stops completely.

Even from his vantage point on the ground and the deepening twilight surrounding them, John can see that “aha” gleam in Sherlock’s golden avatar eyes. He smiles despite himself.

“That would make you Jake Sully’s grandson.”

Le’tay nods in affirmation and smiles at them, his white teeth almost glowing in the growing shadows.

~***~

Greg and Mycroft stand facing one another in the short hallway between their bedrooms. “May I ask you something, admiral?” Greg’s voice is the rumble of an oncoming storm.

Mycroft sees the slight flush of red against Greg’s tan cheeks, the slight part of his lips and he goes completely still. “Yes.” He murmurs.

“Is it something you have ever wanted, admiral?” Greg is looking at the dusty floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the galaxy.

“What might that be, Weapons Master Lestrade?” Mycroft’s husky sound draws Greg’s attention directly to his face.

“You know, to be a ‘mated pair’ as you so eloquently put it?” Greg wonders if Mycroft can hear his heart hammering against his chest.

“I have given it some thought recently.” He says, slowly reaching out a hand to Greg’s shoulder, copying the other man’s movements from earlier.

Greg almost growls. If he were a panther, he would have simply pounced. Something in the back of his mind stops him, begs him to listen to reason. The words _higher-ranking officer_ bounce about the inside of his skull. In a half-choked voice he asks “What about this?” as he points at the polished golden insignia on Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft follows Greg’s hand. “Does it matter to you?” He leans in that much closer, invading Greg’s personal space. Greg unconsciously moves towards the other man.

“No.”

Without any further ado, Greg’s hands are on Mycroft’s shoulders and he is pulling the admiral towards his mouth. When their lips finally touch he wonders if he is imagining the sudden spark of white-hot flames that barrel down his neck all the way to the ground. Mycroft is not exactly pulling away, instead wrapping his arms around Greg’s torso and hauling him in even closer. It is new and fascinating and he is incapable of getting as close as he wants to be.

“My room or yours?” He chokes out.

“Yours.” Greg offers in between soft kisses against the side of Mycroft’s neck. One of them pulls, the other pushes and somehow they make it all the way into the bedroom and even close the door before they are virtually tearing each other’s uniforms off.


	17. Loss for Words

John opens his eyes and stares blearily at the inside of the psionic machine. He has a raging headache behind his temples. After a moment, Una opens the lid with a click from the outside. She gives him a small smile and a nod as he sits up. She hands him a steaming cup of coffee before turning towards Sherlock’s machine and repeating her movements. John holds his mug with one hand as he swings his legs around so that he may stand up. He sets the coffee down on the table next to the machine and stretches his arms causing his back to pop loudly in several places.

As usual, George is sitting in the back of the lab tapping happily away at the keyboard. He gives a one-tentacle wave in John’s direction and John sends him back a similar gesture. John turns towards Sherlock to find him still lying flat on his back, his green eyes staring off into nowhere. In the last two weeks, this has become standard procedure for them, and normally Sherlock is up and on his feet before John. Something is different today.

“Captain?” John asks before sipping from his mug.

“It is amazing, John.” John steps closer to peer down on his lover, recognizing the expression of ecstasy on his face. He reaches out and lightly caresses the side of Sherlock’s jaw with two fingers; two days worth of stubble raps against his fingertips. His gaze falls to John and his expression softens somewhat, though the look of absolute joy does not fade. He sits up just as carefully as John did; they learned in the beginning that sitting up normally after being in their avatars for several hours would cause dizziness and nausea, mostly from the change in body size, linear perspective and atmosphere.

Sherlock reaches out for his own coffee and carefully takes a sip, closing his eyes for a few seconds against the onslaught of the indoor lighting that is so different from the salmon and lilac hues of the twilight they had been appreciating moments before. He ran the hand not gripping the coffee mug through his hair that had now reached beyond crazy-wild-mess-of-curls and was threatening into too-many-knots-may-have-to-shave-it-off territory. He takes a deep sigh and drains the mug.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. It’s just been two days and I was starting to be concerned…” John offers, gesturing with the mug to the metal casket.

“I know, John. I know.” Sherlock’s eyes are full of that faraway look; the hand in his hair is caught on what John figures is a knot. Sherlock tries without much success to pull it out.

“Sherlock, stop.” John grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls it away from his hair. “Let’s take a shower?” He asks, hopefully.

“Alright.” Sherlock answers. As he stands, he reaches for John’s hand and steps in close. John leans his aching head against his chest, allowing the busy noises of the lab surrounded them for a few moments, so different from the sounds of Pandora’s jungles and plains.

“Sherlock, please stop going off on your own. There are still an awful lot of things out there that we know almost nothing about…”

Sherlock’s voice is tired but sure just above John’s head. “I wasn’t alone, John, I was with Le’tay.” He gently ruffles the hair at the nape of his lover’s neck with one hand.

“Well, I didn’t mean _alone_ , Sherlock, I meant _without me_.” John does not really expect an answer and does not get one. After a time, they leave the lab, Sherlock leading and John a few steps behind.

~***~

“Admiral, the psionic machines are now off-line.”

“Thank, you, Una. I appreciate that. Is it possible that they may remain so for a couple of days?” Mycroft asks her over the monitor he is studying.

“Aye, the machines do need a thorough cleaning.” Una gives Mycroft a nod.

“Good.” He nods back in dismissal and turns back to the screen.

~***~

Captain Holmes is practically asleep on his feet in the shower. John is doing the best he can in order to both keep him from falling down and wash him up a little. Finally, he just presses on Sherlock’s shoulders until the man is sitting cross-legged at his feet under the warm spray. John attacks the curls on Sherlock’s head with conditioner first, hoping to work out the knots before shampooing it. The entire time John is working, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his head is tilted backward to allow the water to run down his back and not his face.

“You are exhausted, Sherlock.” John supplies. Sherlock opens his eyelids a mere crack and just looks up at him. John is busy gently working out tiny knots in Sherlock’s hair and misses it. Instead, he continues what he is doing and begins mumbling in a mother-hen sort of way. “I don’t know why you needed to be out there for _two days_ …you know your avatar and your actual body need _rest_ …I think you are just running around enjoying yourself…of course, I do, too…we do have a _purpose_ here…”

Sherlock is amused by the concern but refuses to acknowledge it. He just relaxes against John’s bare legs and hums a little under his breath while John works. Finally, he taps against the flat discs set into the wall above the spigot and the water shuts off. John gets out of the shower gingerly then wraps a large white towel around Sherlock’s shoulders and nudges him upward. Sherlock rests one palm against John’s shoulder as he steps out, using him for balance. The floor is cold, causing Sherlock to wrinkle his nose and hiss in displeasure. John chuckles and continues leading his favorite captain towards the bed.

When Sherlock is mostly dry, except for his hair, John pulls and prods until the taller man is stretched out on his back, with his head on his pillow. Sherlock is almost completely asleep before John snaps his fingers and turns out the light. He succumbs almost as soon as John curls up next to him, one hand on his chest.

~***~

“WHAT did YOU do?” Sherlock shouts at his brother, waking the entire cabin. John snaps awake instantly at the sound of glass shattering against what he presumes is a wall. He grabs a robe from the back of the bedroom door and pads into the kitchen, the bare wood of the floor cold against the bottoms of his feet.

Una comes down the short hallway just behind him. John stops at the entryway and holds his arm across it, stopping Una from going any further. She steps to his side and looks in on the scene.

Mycroft and Sherlock are toe to toe; Sherlock’s face is scarlet with fury and his eyes are blazing green fire. Mycroft is perturbed, though his countenance is much calmer. Just behind them a stream of dark brown liquid is dripping down the wooden wall towards the shards of a dark green mug. Sherlock’s chest is actually heaving, his hands are curled into fists and John is glad the man does not have his swords handy. The Admiral is practically growling.

“The machines need regular maintenance, Sherlock, surely you can understand…” Mycroft is trying to explain.

“Sherlock.” John says from across the room. When Sherlock turns towards him, John has to stop himself from taking a step backward. His eyes are smoldering embers at being denied what he wants; at this moment he wants to get back into his avatar. As in, he wants to get back into his avatar ten minutes ago.

Sherlock seems to come to his senses in an instant, his expression falls back into a more normal one and he stalks towards John. Una makes a little squeak and jumps out of the captain’s way.

“I want them back up in forty-eight hours.” Sherlock talks lowly, though his voice is perfectly plain to everyone.

The silence threatens to overwhelm them when it is broken by the sound of the front door slamming; they can hear the happy snorts of an Odal and the quiet, deep voice of Greg walking up the tunnel into the cabin. They step through the entryway and into the kitchen, Greg’s head moving from side to side as if on a swivel. He calmly walks to the table and tosses his rebreather mask onto it. George snorts and slides towards the refrigerator unit. While they were out on patrol, Greg explained the chances of coming back in to an argument and why, so he was prepared. Looking at everyone else, though, it seems as if they had no warning—even John did not know they would not be going out for a couple of days.  

Mycroft sighs as everyone tries to get the day up and running in a normal manner. George fries up some breakfast for everyone and they sit around the table, each being at a loss for words.


	18. Back in the Saddle

After breakfast, John goes in search of the captain and finds him outside the lab, dual swords in hand. He is standing with his back towards John, legs spread apart, booted feet flat on the ground and swords moving slowly through the air as if dancing with them. He moves to stand on one leg, bending slightly at the waist and bringing the blades around in an arc; at the same time slowly rotating on the foot that is on the ground. John can see his lover’s arm and thigh muscles working to control the descent of the blades, perfectly timing each precise movement. He so rarely gets to see Sherlock this way that he stops and watches, happily indulging himself for a few moments.

Finally, Sherlock notices him and puts his foot down. He tilts his head towards the side a little, asking John if he wants to play, looking for the entire universe like a giant feline asking its prey if it wants to have a bit of a game before it gets pounced on and eaten. John nods. They do not speak much once they have their masks on, as the visor shields tend to get fogged up. John adjusts his mask, making it a little tighter around his face.

Sherlock does not move anything more than one arm as he tosses one of the swords in John’s direction. It spins tip over handle in midair, glinting in the dappled mid-morning light. John reaches out carefully to catch it by the handle as he plants his own feet shoulder width apart, waiting. He will take anything the captain dishes out, knowing instinctively that Sherlock needs this, needs to see that not everything has changed. He needs to get back into the rhythm of his own body after spending so much time in his avatar. John needs it in order to get to the reasons why Sherlock feels that he needs to spend so much time in the avatar.

Both men move around the clearing, following the line of green, purple and yellow foliage. Each waits for the other to strike. John knows he can out-wait Sherlock because eventually the captain gets tired of circling. Finally, Sherlock crosses through the clearing and strikes, the softly-glowing blade humming through the air to greet its twin.

John meets him at the edge, the metal of the two blades creating a melody that sings across the clearing as if it is alive as they slam into each other. John’s shoulder takes the impact; it is enough to let him know that the captain is holding nothing back. He parries and pushes Sherlock back a couple of steps. John moves forward as Sherlock steps backwards then turns away from him, keeping his eyes on John through the mask even as he spins. John knows full well what is coming next and drops to his knees, almost instantly feeling the wind of the flat blade touching the top of his head; a single hair is sliced and tumbles through the air, glinting copper and gold before it hits the ground.

In that tiny span of time, John is back up on his feet and swinging his sword around his body. There is the loud _clang_ of metal against metal and they are at an impasse. Sherlock’s blade is faintly glowing blue, reminding John of the poisoned knife from so long ago…reminding John for an instant of his lover’s heritage. It is enough to take his mind from the sparring and Sherlock pushes forward with all his strength, forcing John to back away.

John realizes his mistake almost too late but recovers fast enough to block the blow coming straight ahead. Again, the two swords meet, this time with the wicked blades pointing towards the ground. John can feel the strain in his arms and across his shoulders as he pushes into Sherlock; finally Sherlock’s eyes meet his and he shoves him backward, forcing Sherlock’s full attention on him. As always, however, Sherlock is moving away, back into another spin; John, irritated and ready for this to be over for the time being, roughly stabs outward with the flat side of the blade. There’s a thud and Sherlock hits the ground.

“Dammit!” John shouts as he drops the sword and rushes to Sherlock’s side.

The captain is actually laughing: rolling around on the ground laughing like a lunatic. When he finally sits up, John takes in the slight dent of his mask and gives him a stern look. John’s expression sets Sherlock off again; John waits. When the captain finally stops laughing and looks up to John, there is no anger evident in his expression.

“Sherlock, that could have been nasty. What if I would have broken the visor shield?”

“You would have had to rush me towards the lab. Would you carry me, John?” A little huff escapes Sherlock’s lips as he fights to not look so amused.

“Idiot.” John smacks him on the shoulder. Sherlock grabs John’s hand as he is pulling back and yanks him to the ground beside him. John’s rear hits the sandy loam with a _whump_. He cannot stop the giggle that escapes his lips. For a while they sit with their shoulders touching, quietly taking in everything around them. When Sherlock finally speaks, John turns towards to see him with his palms flat on the ground as if he is searching for something.

“Did you lose something?” John asks, watching Sherlock carefully skim the ground.

“No.” Sherlock replies. He looks up at John, cocks his head and one eyebrow then says “Yes.”

“Well, which is it then?” John queries, a bit stumped.

“When you are in your avatar, John, what do you hear and see?”

“The wilderness, the animals, you, Le’tay…everything.” John gestures around them.

“Besides all that.” Sherlock turns back to his searching.

“What do you…” John thinks for a moment. “Oh. You are asking about the _connection_ aren’t you?”

“Explain.” The captain does not stop his motions, moving his palms into ever-widening circles.

“Ok. Did you hear when Le’tay was talking about _Eywa_?”

“Go on.”

“Fine. Think about your que.” John does not wait for a reply this time. Continuing on, he says “The little hair-like tentacles at the end of the que, did you notice how Le’tay uses them to connect with his ikran?” Sherlock nods. “The Na’vi, indeed all of the clans that once existed on Pandora, live _with_ their world, not against it. Right so far?” Once again, he is awarded with a nod. “They believe that Eywa is the _connection_ , the spirit that runs through every living thing on the planet. It connects them all to each other and to the ikran and the foliage and every other living creature—some we haven’t even seen yet.” John rests one hand against Sherlock’s back. “Like this.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up as if he has been stung. “It is a spiritual bond, is it not?”

“I believe so. It is the pulse that we automatically feel when we are in our avatars.”

The captain wrinkles his nose. John can hear the words form in his own head before Sherlock even says them; if he wanted to, he could even mouth them at the same time they tumble out of Sherlock’s mouth. “That is ridiculous. That is not _science_ , John.”

John smacks his palm against Sherlock’s back and chuckles, but he completely avoids saying anything else about it. “Come on, my mask is getting hazy, let’s go back.”

Sherlock just gives him a glare that is simply not frosty enough to bother John. He turns away from the captain and makes his way back to the lab, thinking about spirits and spiritual connections. In all the time he has been with the captain, it truly was a subject they had never discussed. Literally finding themselves out in the middle of an entire galaxy really left to room to talk about such things. He mentally shrugged: either the captain would get it, or he wouldn’t. John hoped for the former, because it is really the only way they are going to get through this mission.

~***~

The next day passes uneventfully. It seems to have gone by in an instant as John is climbing back into the psionic machine and getting ready once again to wake up in his avatar. Beside him, Sherlock is doing the same. John has thought of a way that perhaps he can better explain Eywa to Sherlock, he just hopes that the small remaining band of Na’vi will allow what he has in mind to really happen.

The lid closes over his head and he can hear the muffled clicks of it locking into place. There are several other beeps and clicks, then Una’s voice announcing to the rest of the crew that all systems are go. John closes his eyes and relaxes, ready to get back out there.

~***~

Indeed it is _wonderful_ to get back out in the bright living wilderness of Pandora. John and Sherlock stride along side-by-side, shoulders and hands occasionally brushing. Both men are smiling as they begin to climb branches; they are sure-footed as they climb: their large, prehensile Na’vi toes clinging to the bark. Sometimes as they climb ever higher into the shadowy canopy, their tails swing into a loose knot. After seeming to climb for hours (it really only has been two,) they reach the meeting place that John set up with Le’tay two days past.

The youthful Na’vi hunter stands below them, waving a large hand in the air. John waves back and they begin their descent to the ground. A hint of breeze caresses their marked skin as they move down through the branches, Sherlock just in the lead. Just as they both jump to the ground, Na’vi turns his head towards a woman who is leading several others. Le’tay holds out one hand towards the woman and she joins him to greet the avatars.

“John, Captain, this is my life-mate Reneri.” Reneri nods her head in greeting. She stands at Le’tay’s shoulder, obviously curious but afraid to seem to forward with these strangers.

“I am pleased to meet you.” She says to them with a shy expression of wonderment on her face. Her golden eyes meet each of theirs in turn. She gestures towards the small group of Na’vi behind them, informing them that the dozen people left are truly _all_ that are left of what at one time was several clans of Omaticaya that once lived all over Pandora. As they all introduce themselves to John and Sherlock, John’s mind goes into a bit of hibernation as he watches their interactions. He studies the captain and once again finds himself wondering if Sherlock even notices the slight hum that permeates the air around them.

John is brought out of his reverie when Le’tay addresses him directly. “Ambassador Watson?” Though John’s avatar is very tall, Le’tay looms over him by almost a head. He tilts his head at an angle and John is surprised to notice that his irises are a darker shade of the golden ones the Na’vi possesses. The thrumming beat of the life pulse of the planet is white noise in his brain, allowing finer details like the tiny brown specks that surround Le’tay’s feline-like pupils to stand out in relief to him. Somewhere behind all of that he finds himself curious as to what the ever-observant captain sees _now_.

“I apologize, Le’tay.” Next to him, Sherlock gives a little snort. John flat out ignores him. He has bigger things planned for the day. Le’tay gives him a slight nod, grinning, his sharp white teeth a marked contrast against his skin. Reneri has walked away from them, back towards the group.

“I have something for you, John.” Le’tay makes a guttural shout in the back of his throat and everyone present turns their attention towards the forest. Reneri lets out an answering shout and suddenly the air is full of the sound of entirely too many pounding hooves. Several very large, six-legged horse-like creatures round the corner and come to a halt. Le’tay crosses towards the animals and holds out his hand. The largest member of the herd steps forward and dips her rounded muzzle into his palm. A long, gray tongue swipes against his skin and the animal closes her eyes.

John stares at the creatures, taking in their almost hairless gray and tan skin, their blue eyes, six legs with broad hooves and their long antennae. Just behind the leader, two of the animals are stretching their necks towards one another; he can see them touching each other softly, the antennae acting as hands. If John were to say that he is absolutely _fascinated_ with the animals it would be an understatement. Reneri comes to his side holding a pair of large tangerine-colored flowers. She holds one of them out to him, showing him how to hold it with the open side outward. Reneri tugs on John’s arm enough to get him moving towards another one of the herd members. He follows her lead, holding the flower out towards the animal.

“What do I call them?” John asks as his eyes widen when the animal’s tongue pokes out to swipe at the interior of the flower. Standing this close, the pulse in his head is stronger, perhaps even happier.

“I say _pa’li_ , you would call them _direhorse_ , I believe I heard Jakesully call them by that name.” Reneri informs him.

John gives a short laugh as the direhorse’s antennae gently probe his arm. It is a curious sensation, once again pushing the pulse in his head into a new rhythm. He hears a similar sound from Sherlock and cannot stop himself from searching in the direction it came from to see the captain being coached in a similar manner by Le’tay. Smiling broadly at everything in general, he reaches up with the other hand and taps his ear piece, stating quietly to whomever is listening back at the lab: _Are you getting this_? When he is answered in the affirmative, he clicks the microphone back off and slowly reaches out to stroke the side of the massive animal.

The direhorse shakes her giraffe-like neck in exactly the same manner an earth equid would do to shake its mane. She seems to be finished with the flower, so he allows it to fall to the ground and steps up next to her flank. Her head comes around to gently butt at his hip, otherwise she is still.

“She likes you, Johnwatson.” Reneri puts her hands together to form a stirrup and encourages John to step up. He wonders if he is ever going to get used to the way the Na’vi run given and last names together to form a single word. Except for Le’tay, apparently he was close enough to his grandfather to pick up the human speech pattern. Once John is settled astride the direhorse, Reneri pulls at the end of his que and flips it over his shoulder. She steps around him and quickly mounts the direhorse standing next to them in a single fluid movement. Reneri reaches up towards an antennae, pulling it down towards herself. She tosses her head in an imitation of the animal, flipping her own que over her shoulder. John copies her movements until he has completed his own neural bond.

The world around him suddenly gets much brighter, sounds are crisper, clearer and the pulsing him becomes the thump of a shared heartbeat. John is amazed to find that he can not only feel the direhorse’s heartbeat against his bare legs, but his own heart seems to beat with the same rhythm. It is exhilarating. He feels movement beside him and then Sherlock is there, mounted and experiencing the same thing. John cannot stop himself before the words tumble past his lips. “Do you understand it now?”

Even in his avatar, the expression he graces John with is so incredibly _him_ ; a slight nose wrinkle and the corners of his lips turn upward. “I believe I am beginning to get it.”

John is satisfied with that answer. Le’tay brings his own mount to a stop in front of them and tells John that he and Reneri will lead them only so far, and after that they are on their own. They have chosen calm mounts for the two new riders, so there is no fear of being dumped along the way. John can almost see Sherlock’s ears prick up. “You still have no idea where we are going, so don’t even ask.” He quips to the captain without looking at him.

“To ask the _pa’li_ to move, just think it, Johnwatson.” Reneri supplies. John relaxes onto his seat bones and thinks about moving forward. The direhorse steps out easily, her body making a rocking motion beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the direhorses, so you'll have to excuse me. For some reason, I have a really easy time picturing John Watson of any time period as a calm, easy-going rider. Sherlock-hmm, not so much. Of course he would look elegant on a horse (especially the BBC version-wink wink) though I believe he would be constantly trying to out-think his mount. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter and the next one were originally one long piece that I have been working on since I posted the last one (mostly) but I chose to break it here for-well, reasons! I hope I'm explaining it right so if you have or haven't seen the movie, please inform me if I am being too vague. (Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Greg and Mycroft!)
> 
> Till next time: Keep Calm and Believe in Sherlock!


	19. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that what Le’tay means when he says I see you, John?” He asks in a mesmerized tone of voice as he reaches with both hands to John’s shoulders.
> 
> “Aye, captain.” John whispers against the azure skin of Sherlock’s neck that he is happily pressing kisses against.

Le’tay and Reneri stop just on the top ridge overlooking a small valley that is encircled with trees and flowers. The trees seem to be vibrant and healthy, though the flowers look a bit wilted as if they have not received enough water or sunshine. Their subdued tangerine and scarlet blooms dip towards the ground as if weeping. John had noticed small things such as the wilting flowers all along their ride through the forest. Overhead, the sky is still a crisp blue and the light blue sun seems to never waver from its low position on its zenith.

John pats the neck of his mount and gently shifts himself as he dismounts. Sherlock is  just as quick, if not as a graceful, finally ending up standing on the ground with his tail still lying across the direhorse’s back. John grins a little and moves around to help with the minor predicament. He holds Sherlock’s tail in one hand and waves off the Na’vi couple with the other. The now-riderless direhorses dip their heads towards the men and turn away to follow the others, twelve legs kicking up minute clouds of dust on the well-worn trail. In unison, they reach up and tap the power button on their ear pieces to _off_.

“Where are we, John?” Sherlock asks, allowing a slight edge to come through his voice.

John fiddles with the tuft of hair at the end of Sherlock’s tail, enjoying the silky feeling of it against his fingertips. “Can you give me a few moments?”

“Alright.” Sherlock twitches his tail and fights the smile breaking across his face when John’s fingers tickle the smooth skin on the appendage.

“Good, then, follow me.” John drops Sherlock’s tail and begins moving farther down the ridge.

When they finally stop, John spreads his hands wide as if opening a curtain on the sight before them. The grass is long and sways gently in the breeze that cuts across the clearing, seed heads seeming to dance. In the center of the clearing stands a gnarled tree; its bark dark gray in color and branches twisted in a thousand shapes. The branches are covered in long, flowering stalks, almost like a white weeping willow back on Earth. John actually sucks in a deep breath, as even with knowing what this is he still cannot help but be moved by the beauty of it all. Sherlock grabs his hand and squeezes it in acknowledgement of the splendor before him, almost racing over to the tree, pulling John in his wake.

“May I touch it?” Sherlock reaches out towards the gray bark with his fingers outspread, then looks over his shoulder. John is completely taken in by those gold eyes that are so _different_ yet contain the same searing, penetrating gaze he has learned to not only live with but simply adore.

“I think so.” He answers. During their discussion, Le’tay only told him what the tree _is_ and what it _does_ , he made no mention of what they could not do to it.

Sherlock strokes the warm bark tenderly, his full attention captured by the tree. John steps up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, enjoying the swell of his muscular rear end against his own rapidly filling arousal. John moves his hips slightly and Sherlock’s gasp almost breaks out from between closed lips.

The humming pulse around them has become the echoes of thousands of voices singing through the history of Pandora, of this place; is it a comfort rather than a distraction. He turns in John’s arms until they are standing chest to chest with Sherlock’s spine against the trunk. The branches swoop down around them as if to hide them from prying eyes. When their lips press against each other, the warm thrumming melody kicks up a notch and Sherlock pulls back, absolutely amazed. He could not only feel the press of his lips against John's but he could also feel his own lips _through_ John's own mouth. 

“Is that what Le’tay means when he says _I see you_ , John?” He asks in a mesmerized tone of voice as he reaches with both hands to John’s shoulders.

“Aye, captain.” John whispers against the azure skin of Sherlock’s neck that he is happily pressing kisses against.

“Hmmm….” Sherlock closes his eyes and simply listens. With each press of John’s lips against his skin, he feels thousands of eyes upon them; eyes that are watching with interest; eyes that are not judging, but then the sound changes and the feeling of being watched disappears. The song changes to one of joy, a celebration of life and John falls to his knees. He slowly unties the loincloth from about Sherlock’s hips and presses more kisses against the well-defined muscles of the avatar.

As he pushes forward and takes Sherlock’s member into his mouth he reflects that even though the avatars are a separate entity when they are not linked, here, and now? This is as much the captain as the man lying comfortably in the psionic machine in the lab many kilometers away. John strokes the captain’s thighs slowly, enjoying the feeling of the smooth skin as much as Sherlock is enjoying being pleasured in this manner.

It is amazing. Sherlock presses against the tree and thrusts his hips forwards. John does not quite choke, though he makes a muffled sound and pulls away. He sits down on the ground and grabs Sherlock’s hands, asking the other man to join him. Sherlock does and quickly divests John of his own covering. He leans over the ambassador’s body, holding himself up on his hands. They kiss again, more deeply this time, the slow slide of tongues against each other is a heady feeling when timed with the humming pulse that wraps about their bodies like an ethereal rope connecting them with each other and every Omaticaya that ever lived.

After a time, John stills his lover, asking him quietly to wait for a moment. He reaches across Sherlock’s back and draws his que over his shoulder. Sherlock watches, fascinated, as John brings the tip of his own que towards the tip of Sherlock’s que. Tiny sapphire cilia wave in the air for a split second before they meet. Both men moan as suddenly they are seeing through the other’s eyes. The thrumming has changed to a heavy drumbeat and the only words going through their minds now are _I want_.

Sherlock moves upward slightly, switching his weight to one hand while he cups the back of John’s neck with the other, bringing their mouths closer in contact. Their heavy, full cocks strain against each other as they rock together. There is not a single thing that matters any more than _this_. They are caught up in the rocking, grinding, muscles-tensing torment of their ecstasy that it seems they are floating. John’s hands are gripping the firm globes of Sherlock’s buttocks, pushing him even closer. They are the tide coming in, the roll of the waves of the life-creating waters of the galaxy, the ikrans soaring above and the tiny insects below. For that time, they are everything; a never-ending circle of souls and minds and joy and love.

Images flash through Sherlock’s mind: they are memories; specifically John’s memories. Powerful, happy memories of his mother’s face, his sister’s laughter; they are golden honey swirled with butter on a hot scone. They are parts of John they Sherlock has never been able to share in: the memories that are closest to his heart. Sherlock’s own face swims to the forefront of all of these memories and he feels like his heart will burst against his ribs if he takes in any more. He opens his eyes for a fraction of a second and judges that by the expression on John’s face that he is seeing similar mental pictures.

When one of them finally succumbs to orgasm, the other is close behind; since they are both a single unit, it is unknown to both who actually went first. They do not say the words to each other, though both men feel them. Sherlock rolls to his side and pulls John close to him, his head finally coming to rest against John’s chest; their ques still joined rest across John’s hips to make an unbroken line between them. Two pairs of golden eyes close and two hearts beat with the rhythm of the life-affirming Tree of Souls.

John and Sherlock sleep on the soft ground for several hours. When at last they stir, John waits to hear what his lover is going to say about what happened to them. He feels euphoric and hopes that Sherlock is in a similar state. He stretches his arms, only slightly uncomfortable with the feeling of their drying orgasms against his skin. With one hand, he strokes Sherlock’s back as he feels him slowly coming back into awareness.

“John,” says a muffled voice against his chest, warm lips and puffs of breath tickling him slightly, “that was amazing.”

“I concur.” John can’t help the way the devilish grin splits his face. Sherlock rubs his face against John’s sternum before looking up at him.

“I think I may be beginning to understand what you attempted to explain earlier.”

“Hmmm….”John answers. He is absolutely going to make him _say it_.

Sherlock actually makes a humpf noise and attempts to wrinkle his Na’vi nose. The action fails epically. John laughs.

“Fine.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I could hear…something. Do you still feel the pulse?”

John relaxes against the ground for a moment. Mostly what he can feel and hear is Sherlock, possibly because they are still physically as well as mentally connected; however, he can still make out the slight background noise of the hum of the life of Pandora that he misses when he is not inside his avatar. “Yes.” He answers honestly.

Sherlock sits up and crosses his legs. John joins him. Sherlock takes their ques in his hand and studies the connection between them closely. “What is this?”

“Le’tay calls it _tsaheylu_. It is the connection with all life.” John gestures about them, his movements taking in the tree, the ground, the sky and Sherlock.

“Is this like the psionic connection?” Sherlock peers closer at the ques.

“I think so. Do you remember all the images that passed through your mind, my memories?” John queries.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes shift from the ques to John’s. He nods.

“It is something deeper, Sherlock. For once, I do believe this is _more_ than what we can understand.”

“Will we still feel this way when we are apart?” Sherlock closes his eyes as if asking the question is painful for him.

“From what I understand, yes.”

“What about when we return to the lab?”

“Captain, I’m not sure if I can answer that. As far as Le’tay knew, _this_ ” John reaches out and grasps the two silky braids, “has never been done. I have always felt connected to you, almost from the beginning; I wanted to show you something _more._ ”

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans against the tree. He reaches out to John and pulls him against his chest and just holds him for a while. The sun slips lower towards the horizon as the daytime rhythm changes to the quieter one of the twilight.

“We need to be getting back.” John states.

Sherlock sighs but does not answer right away.

“Sherlock?” John turns to face him.

“You have shown me so much, John, I want…” Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut.

“What?” John prods.

“I want to stay out longer, there is so much ground I need to cover again. With this new knowledge, I may finally be able to understand what is happening here.” It is Sherlock’s turn to gesture around them.

“Sherlock, we need to rest. You almost collapsed the last time…” John frowns and crosses his strong avatar arms across his chest.

Sherlock sighs again, closes his eyes and hangs his head, shaking it back and forth.

“Sherlock, I wanted to be with you tonight.” John offers, hoping his lover will reconsider.

“You said that _it_ will still last, even if we are apart.”

“Yes, but…”

“No, John. I have work to do. The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner we can get back to our ship…”

“Sherlock, you need to rest…both bodies. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this.” John stands up, hoping the distance will make Sherlock come to his senses.

“I can, John, and I will. You know how I…” Sherlock frowns as he moves up beside John. “You _know_.” He lays one hand against John’s shoulder. John does not step into it, though he does not move away, either.

“Yes, Sherlock. I do. It does not overshadow the good sense of…”

“No, John. I am going to stay out here and I am going to get the data I need. You go back to the lab. Let them know I am doing fine, I will stop and rest at some point…”

“No you won’t.” John counters.

Sherlock stops talking. John is right and he knows it. The only acknowledgement John is going to get is a pause in Sherlock’s thinking. He knows that as well. “John, please.”

“Fine, Sherlock. Come with me tonight and tomorrow…” John offers, hoping for a compromise.

“I need to do this alone.” Sherlock says, looking down at the ground now and away from John’s face. He spreads his legs apart, effectively holding his ground.

“Is this really what you want…even after…after all of this?” John asks him, point-blank.

Sherlock is silent for several heartbeats. John feels like a heavy wave is crashing over him, threatening to yank him down and drown him. When Sherlock answers a defiant “yes,” John feels the damn break.

“Maybe you can do all of this better on your own.” John shouts, giving into his anger riding so closely on the heels of an endorphin rush.

The captain turns away, his long que swinging around his shoulders to slowly wave back and forth just above his buttocks. When he speaks, his voice is a burring whisper. “Maybe I can.”

John stares for a few moments, shocked. He gathers up his loincloth and slowly walks away, determination in his steps, his avatar tail moving in irritated arcs like an angry feline. When he stops below what seems a reasonably protected grove of trees, he slumps down and instantly closes his eyes. He taps the button on his ear piece, turning the power back on and says in a tone that brooks no argument. “I’m coming home. Alone.” There is absolutely no reply from the lab, though John would not have heard it anyway, he is already waking up in the psionic machine before his avatar pitches sideways and slumps to the ground, a machine devoid of its driver.


	20. Too Far Down

John climbs out of the psionic machine gingerly; he is a man with a heavy heart. When he stands up, he notes the huge eyes of George staring him down as if reading his soul. He just shakes his head wearily and turns towards the cabin. Greg steps up behind the Odal and places one hand on the alien’s shoulder with a firm little pat. Everyone in the lab is speechless. They did not hear the exact words spoken between them, though they could feel that something was wrong when John came back alone.

Mycroft sits at the desk in front of the monitor with his face resting in his hands. He is completely unsure of what the next step should be. He is partially aware of the sound of George’s sullen hoot as the Odal leaves the lab. Una calls out a goodnight to him and then Greg is there beside him, resting his hand against Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft raises his head, giving Greg the once over then reaching up and clicking his ear piece back on. Greg leans in and grasps both sides of Mycroft’s face in his hands, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. After a time, he kisses him softly on the lips and pulls back to stare at him.

“You did nothing wrong.” Greg says softly as he taps his own ear piece.

Before Mycroft can answer, Sherlock’s gruff growling Na’vi voice comes through the devices. “Leave me the fuck alone, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, you need to get back here. You and your avatar need to rest.” Mycroft says with authority.

“Fuck you Mycroft.” Sherlock responds. Mycroft holds onto a tiny flicker of hope because apparently Sherlock’s hands are too busy to turn off the ear piece. Mycroft turns the monitor back on and points to the little dot that shows them Sherlock is high up in the canopy, doing what looks like climbing using both hands and feet.

Mycroft heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his shoulders. “Where are you going, _alone_ , Sherlock?”

The little dot on the screen stops moving. Even at this distance, Mycroft can feel the wheels in his brother’s head churning. The original agreement between them was that everyone always went out in pairs, at the very least.

 Up in the trees, Sherlock knows that his brother has the power to pull rank at any second and force him back to the lab. He pauses in his climbing, being forced back now would be a serious issue for the avatar, especially if it fell to the ground from this distance. He closes his eyes and focuses on the admiral’s voice.

“Sherlock, let me explain this to you one last time. If you do not find a safe place for your avatar in five minutes, I am personally pushing the button that will disconnect you from it _for good_. You can go back to gaining your information the old way.”

“Mycroft, Pandora is dying.” Sherlock’s has the audacity to sound like a whiny teenager. Beside him, Greg lets out a snort of displeasure. Mycroft turns toward him and smiles before answering.

“As I am well aware.”

“Mycroft, I need more time. It all has to do with the connections, with this _Ewya_ thing…” Sherlock gasps as a whole new world opens up in front of him. The sun has just set, plunging the forest around him in complete darkness—except for the glowing foliage, roots and insects now plainly see with Na’vi eyes. “That’s it!” Sherlock shouts! Mycroft pulls his ear-piece part way out of his ear while Greg yanks his off completely.

“I will be there in ten minutes.” There is a click and the only thing to tell them that Sherlock is scrambling back _down_ the trees is the descending of his dot on the monitor.

~***~

There is a quiet knock on the door to their bedroom. John pushes himself up against the headboard and calls out “enter.”Una opens the door and steps in, leaving it partially ajar.

“Ambassador, are you doing alright?” Una asks in a muffled voice through the hand she puts over her mouth. She stands rooted on the spot, just one step in from the door.

“No. I will be, though, thanks for asking.” John tilts his head to one side a little, watching her carefully. The Telom understands his uneasiness around her; she does not let it get to her, however, instead choosing to concentrate on John’s better qualities.

“I just wanted to let you know that if you needed someone to listen, I am here. George is, too, he did want me to tell you that.” Una clicks her heels together lightly and exits the room. 

“Thank you.” John’s voice follows her out.

~***~

Sherlock is rushing to his hiding place in bounding strides so fast that he is almost trotting across the landscape. He is out farther than even John has been yet, the ground that was once a river basin dry and desolate now. It is a large barren spot on the plains that are otherwise still healthy with plant life, even if they would not be described as _bountiful_. He is lost in his mind, going over the talk with John and the amazing spiritual _something_ that is so deeply ingrained in the Omaticaya. He is so immersed in his own thoughts that he fails to see the chasm before it is too late.

Without warning, Sherlock plunges feet first into a hole. He seems to fall into the darkness for several minutes before he is aware of the chill of water as he hits the bottom. There is only an echo of his crash and he weakly reaches for his earpiece before he passes out cold.

~***~

“Ambassador!” Una is banging on the bedroom door with both fists. John startles awake as she is coming into his room, grabbing at one arm and practically hauling him through the tunnel and into the lab.

John’s head is spinning and he tries to gain some control. So far, all he can decipher is that something has happened to Sherlock and his avatar.

_Something has happened to Sherlock._

“Stop!” He shouts as he holds both hands up. Every being stops attempting to talk with him all at once. He stands there in the midst of utter chaos, his chest heaving and his eyes wild from lack of sleep or perhaps worry about the captain; a mix of both is most likely. When he sees Mycroft settle back into his chair and Greg move to join him, he turns towards Una and asks her to repeat what she just said. He latches onto the fact that Sherlock is most certainly still alive, as the monitors are all reading favorably. It appears that he is simply _lost_ for the moment and cannot be awakened.

“So, what you are telling me is that even though he is lost in his avatar _out there_ ,” John points towards the windows for good measure, “and he is still healthy _in here_ ,” he points to the psionic machines, “that it is inadvisable to wake him up here because forcing his mind away from his avatar body would damage them both.”

Una nods with both enthusiasm and sadness.

“Alright. Alright. It’s fine. We can deal with this.” John rubs his forehead with his fingers. “Will you keep watching the monitors, then, Una?” She agrees and settles back into her stool between the machines, though her eyes remain on him.

“George is it possible to keep the link on him so we can attempt to find out his exact location on the map?” The Odal snorts and squeaks out the affirmative. “Good.” John has begun pacing the length and breadth of the lab, in imitation of his lover.

“Mycroft, what have you got?”

“Ambassador, in the event we need to rescue him, my ship is on stand-by just within Pandora’s orbit.”

“Alright, thank you Admiral.” It is always fascinating for the rest of the crew when their leaders snap back and forth between military formality and familiarity. Formality means things are serious and it seems to be a means of comfort for them all. “That is not all, though is it, Admiral?” John asks as he stops by the machine Sherlock is currently sleeping in. He strokes the metal with his fingertips, keeping his eyes down on the machine.

“No.” Mycroft answers. Next to him, Greg turns to him in surprise.


	21. Out of Darkness

Deep down in a crevice out in the center of a desolate river bed somewhere in the wilds of a dying moon Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position. His head throbs and he can feel pain in small bursts where his Na’vi self will be bruised tomorrow. Even with the tough skin of the avatar, the body will still show contusions, only they will be lighter colored against the blue. He moves around in the dark, using his hands to feel for somewhere to rest. He finds it and sets his back against a rough wall. His feet still dangle in the water, as there is barely enough room for him to sit up down here. He turns his face upward but it is too dark now to see anything save for the faint glow given off by the foliage around the dry river bed.

Sherlock closes his eyes and taps at his ear piece, only partially hoping that someone will answer. The device gives off a slight hum, and then there is the crackle and buzz of dead air space which is cut off almost as quickly as it started. In frustration, Sherlock rips the thing out of his ear and tosses it away; it smashes against the rock not far from him and he growls a little under his breath. _Damn_. The only hope he has left now is that the tracking device is still giving out a signal and that he will be found before hypothermia sets in.  

Sometime later, Sherlock is unsure whether he is sleeping or staring into darkness. He is in his own body once again sitting in a chair in an otherwise empty room. There is light, though it is muted, hazy. With the blink of an eye, a three-legged stool appears in front of him; another blink and Grace Augustine settles onto the stool. She reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and retrieves a cigarette with seems to light of its own accord. She takes a deep drag with her eyes closed. When she opens them, the smoke from her lungs begins to coalesce into shapes as her low voice resonates off of the walls. Sherlock’s last thought in the second before her narration begins is one of confusion.

~***~

“Mycroft, what did you do?” Greg’s voice is stern in his attempt to hold back the anger slowly clawing its way towards the surface.

Mycroft stares around the room at the crew, failing to meet their eyes. John has stepped in closer, still too far away to take a swing at the admiral. Mycroft sighs heavily, bringing his hand up to rub across his forehead. He thinks quickly, wondering if he can change the subject enough so that they forget about it. “We do not have time for this; we need to get to Sherlock…”

The air in the lab has changed to something supercharged and ominous. John’s voice is the crack of a sharp blade through bone when he speaks. “What have you done, Mycroft?” The tone brooks no argument, even from a superior officer.

Mycroft holds his arms away from his body, palms outward as if begging for forgiveness. “I believed that if Sherlock could find the reason for Pandora’s _state_ , for want of a better word, that perhaps we would be able to set up a base here, possibly start mining again…”

“Asshole.” Greg mumbles under his breath, but still loud enough for everyone to hear. “We trusted you. You said the IA sent us here to save the people, not finish the job of destroying what they have left.”

“They did.” Mycroft turns towards him, feeling suddenly naked and emotionally stripped under his lover’s angry visage.

“So, then, what? You thought you could get a piece of the pie?” John asks as he takes another step forward. “After all these weeks…after Le’tay and Sherlock…after the Tree of Souls…how could you still be unable to _understand_ what is happening here?” John is now within striking distance, and with Greg at his back, Mycroft is effectively trapped.

“John, you must believe me. I was wrong.” The admiral drops all attempts at faking his way out of this predicament.

Greg reaches out and lays a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. John nods and steps back a pace. “You were wrong, Mycroft. Thank you for saying so. That explains a few things to me.” John crosses his arms over his chest as he talks, sounding so much like Sherlock that Una and Greg can feel the other man’s presence, even as he sleeps not far from them.  “It explains why we are _still here_ , even after all this time. It explains why you allowed Sherlock to get so bonded with his avatar that making him leave it almost causes him physical pain.” John’s face scrunches up with the effort to hold back the words _and leaving me alone_ ; he manages to keep them from escaping his mouth. “It also explains why your ship is orbiting this moon. But.” John pauses and his expression is stormy as he moves his gaze from Mycroft to the psionic machine and back. “It absolutely does not explain why you aren’t doing everything in your power to get the people _off_ this godforsaken rock before it implodes.”

“John, I am.” Mycroft actually recoils at his own pleading. “I am. Three of the public access areas on my ship have been readied to accommodate…”

Mycroft’s words are cut off by a sound like an explosive blast. The lab shakes a little under their feet and then steadies. John knows full well that they are standing on a ticking time bomb, though according to Sherlock’s calculations they were to have been safe for several more months.

“Apparently, this is the time for the Holmes brothers to be wrong.” Una calls as she moves back towards the oxygen pumps. No one disagrees with her.

“It doesn’t matter now, Mycroft.” Greg states, though he is still miffed about his lover’s confession. “Our plans just got moved up for us.”

George hoots and snorts, his tentacles flying over the keyboard. Greg tilts his head in the Odal’s direction then nods at him. “He’s found Sherlock.”

            ~***~

“Sherlock, you must understand that there will be no recovery for Pandora.” Grace explains as she runs the fingers not holding the cigarette to her lips through her hair. Though she has taken enough drags to finish at least half of the thing, it seems to never end; no ash builds up at the base of it. All of the pictures that she has been weaving through the air disappear as rapidly as they form.

He takes in her neat appearance, the keen wisdom in her brown eyes and finds that he has absolutely no words to convey to her his utter grief at being wrong.

“No, Sherlock. You were led to the wrong conclusions.” Grace gestures around the room. “You will eventually figure that out on your own. Suffice it to say that the matter has been resolved…” here she hesitates, her eyes going up towards what Sherlock assumes is a ceiling high overhead. She takes another drag. “…right now.” She uses the orange-ended stick as a pointer. “There really is nothing you can do to save the moon, Sherlock.”

He watches her closely. He nods and she continues.

“The bonds were broken. What little remains is too fragile to withstand the hollow core of this moon. Its time is up. You saw the fault line in the dark, didn’t you, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” He is surprised at the weak sound he makes.

“What did that tell you?” She asks, pinning him to the chair with her eyes as if he were nothing more than a specimen under her microscope: hers for the experimentation, the questions to be asked.

“I saw what John and Le’tay and the others had been attempting to explain to me. I saw the web of life that connected everything here; I saw it in John’s eyes earlier…it is not just _here_ , the Omaticaya will live on. They will move forward, though they will never be able to go back to what they were.”

“Yes.” Grace’s voice has been replaced by a much more masculine one. A Na’vi man sits where she had been, one leg crossed over the other and leaning forward onto his arms.

“Jake Sully?” Sherlock queries.

“You know who I am. I was in the legends long before I set foot on Pandora. I will remain so. They knew things would change once I arrived—I did not understand it until much later. The Na’vi, they were the most forward thinking of all the Omaticaya, Sherlock, understand that. Because that is the only way you can help them.”

Suddenly, Jake looks down at the silver watch on his wrist, an incongruous sight. Funnily enough, Sherlock thinks _blending what had been with what could be_. Then everything is dark and he is alone again.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open to a bright light and the sound of rotors overhead. Suddenly, there is a rope and then John—not John’s avatar, but the man himself, dressed to be out in the wilderness- appears and holds out a hand. Sherlock grasps it with his own, suddenly fully aware of the difference in size between the Na’vi and themselves. He needs to talk to John, to tell him that he was wrong, but now is not the time. He needs to get back to the lab, and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright it is completely self-indulgence, but please tell me the three-legged stool was not too obscure a reference...


	22. Velocity

Twenty-four hours after being rescued from the crevice, Sherlock is sitting in the lab, staring at the monitor in front of him with a frown. Mycroft enters the room from the opposite side and quietly steps up next to his brother.

“I have absolutely _nothing_ to say to you, Admiral.” Sherlock’s eyes never leave the screen.

“Sherlock, I want to apologize.” Mycroft says after clearing his throat.

“I do not give a fuck, _Admiral_. I cannot…” Sherlock’s head swivels towards his older brother. His gaze is full of fire. “I cannot do _this_ right now, Mycroft. We have bigger issues to attend to. You have done enough to bring this mission to its knees.” He studies Mycroft, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the slight stiffness to his movements. Sleeping on the floor in the cabin serves him right for being such a selfish ass.

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth. “No.”

Mycroft just shuts his mouth and turns to walk away. He knows when to admit he has been knocked down a peg.

“Make yourself useful, Mycroft. Start by getting the Omaticaya off this moon.” Mycroft turns back towards Sherlock’s voice, though the captain is already back to being engrossed by whatever is on the screen, his long fingers flying over the old-fashioned keyboard. “Make it right.” Sherlock growls. Mycroft nods as he yanks his e-book from his trousers, quickly composing a message to his second-in-command. He spreads his legs apart as a trembler rattles the laboratory. In the past twelve hours, the tremors have been coming more often.

The door slams open to admit Greg and George. The set of Greg’s mouth tells Sherlock what he has already surmised: the situation outside is degrading rapidly. They share a look across the room as George chirps his report to Sherlock.

It has taken awhile and some practice, but Sherlock can now pick out enough of the Odal’s lingo to understand about eighty percent of what he says. The other twenty percent he looks to Greg or Una to translate. Sherlock gives George a nod as he passes the desk. “Thank you.” George leaves him with a wave of a few tentacles.

“Where is she now?” Sherlock asks Greg. Apparently, no translation was needed at all this time.

“Una is out there with John helping Mycr—the Admiral’s crew get the last of the Omaticaya sorted and ready for transport-“ Greg’s words are cut off by yet another rumble from beneath their feet. “What George said is true, Sherlock, the trees, the grass, just everything, it all seems to be _wilting_ , almost like Pandora has given up the will to live.”

“It is not the moon itself, Greg. It is Ewya. She is pulling away from the moon, readying herself to be moved. When the last of the people finally embark, Pandora is going to implode.”

Greg’s eyes widen. He reaches up to yank the mask off of his head from where he pushed it a few minutes ago. He scratches at his scalp, his fingers making a general mess of his needing-a-haircut-soon silver locks. He sighs. “How…” He begins.

Sherlock finishes the thought for him. “We will be leaving at the same time. Our transport and the one carrying the people will lift off at the same time. No matter how I reason through each outcome, this is the only way.” He sits back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. His boots have lost their shine, he thinks it a fitting metaphor to the way he is now feeling about this mission.

“Alright then.” Greg leaves Sherlock to his thoughts so that he can go and pack.

~***~

Greg zips up his pack after smashing the last of his scant belongings into it. There is a knock on the door and it opens to admit Mycroft after Greg shouts “enter.” Greg’s first thought is that Mycroft looks _lost_. A small war takes place between his brain and his heart, only ending when he tears his eyes away from the admiral and back to his chore.

“I can’t do this now, Mycroft.”

“Would you even accept an apology?”

“I don’t know. Is it really me you need to apologize to? I had no idea what this mission was when I signed on for it. To be honest with you, it has seriously been kind of dull for me. At least I’ve gotten some training hours in.”Greg frowns.

In the doorway, Mycroft leans against the frame, his hands deep in his pockets. His entire body is a picture of guilt, though when Greg looks up Mycroft’s eyes are a study in pain.

“You really feel something for me?”

“I believe I do.”

“Fine. We will work through this.” In a statement identical to his brother’s, he says: “Make it right, Admiral.” Greg shoves past him, pack in hand, pulling his rebreather mask down at the same time. Mycroft fights the urge to grab the other man by the hips and pull him back, to hold onto him, just for a moment. Right then, there is another tremor. This one is stronger and the lights flicker on and off for a few seconds. He whispers to his retreating lover, “I am not sure if I am capable.”

~***~

Finally, they are all outside next to the transport pods. Within two hours, the situation has deteriorated even more dramatically. The sky has taken on an ominous slate grey hue; there is no breeze to speak of. It is almost as if the entire planet has gone still and quiet: waiting.

Waiting for what is the question.

John stands aside, watching everyone board the transport ship. It is a tiny thing, really only made to seat four comfortably; in this instance it will be filled with not only six passengers, but also their gear and personal belongings.

Every time there is a rumble underfoot he suppresses a shudder. It is unnerving how quickly everything has changed. From making love under the Tree of Souls to where they are now in less than a week’s time…this is certainly one of the most unique missions they have been on. Finally, only he and the captain are left standing outside the pod. Sherlock holds up a hand to the driver of the pod carrying the Omaticaya and she nods at him. Through the windshield of the ship, they can see her tap her own ear piece as she waits for the Admiral’s next instructions. John gives her a little wave and then ducks into the pod, Sherlock on his heels.

Inside the pod it is close and warm. Mycroft is in the driver’s seat, Una next to him. Behind Mycroft, George sits next to an empty seat. Directly behind him in the cargo area, Greg is straddling his pack, John’s is on the ground next to him. John pats Sherlock’s shoulder as he steps forward to join Greg, considering that with Sherlock’s height it will be easier for him to stretch out a somewhat normal seat. Sherlock gives him a tight-lipped expression and takes the set behind Una.

There is virtually no sound in the cabin except for Mycroft’s voice issuing orders through his ear-piece. Even from where he sits, John can hear the answers of both the other transport driver as well as whomever is currently in charge up on the _Proto-Tethys_.

“The ride back is going to take longer than the ride in, so please make yourselves comfortable.” Mycroft says to everyone and no one in general. The tension between all of them is coiled tight: they are all questioning the trust placed in one another. He flips a switch on the dashboard next to the stick and starts counting down. On the count of five, they can feel the pod slowly begin to rise, its twin engines whirring and humming evenly. Sherlock stretches out, resting his hands beneath his head, which just happens to be within John’s reach. He allows a brief touch of two fingers to those wild curls, just for a moment to connect. His touch tells Sherlock that he is still hurt and upset to have been left behind, though it will never come between them.

The small craft lurches as it gains altitude, rocking left and right with winds that up until now have been dormant. Greg takes in a deep gasp and George hoots in a worried manner. Greg speaks to the Odal softly under his breath and there is an answering snort, then they are all quiet once again.

Looking out the tiny window next to him, Sherlock can watch the ascension of the pod carrying Le’tay and the others. He rests his forehead against the cool polyvinyl and cannot stop the feeling of failure that threatens to overtake him.

Suddenly, there is a crack and a huge bolt of lightning passes in front of the craft.

“It has begun.” Sherlock whispers.

“Look!” Una shouts, pointing towards the windshield, her voice muffled slightly behind the face shield of her mask.

The sky is full of _ikran_ of all colors, the massive animals flying between the two pods. John is grieved to know that every one of these animals is going to die. There is absolutely no way to save them. He wonders briefly if they are aware of what is happening. After his time with Ewya, he is in no doubt.

Then there is the horrible sound of an injured animal screaming its rage at the universe. The pod rocks maniacally, throwing them all about the tiny cabin. John picks himself off of the floor, Greg doing the same beside him. George has gone even more green in color than he generally is and Mycroft is concentrating so hard on maintaining altitude in the craft that he does not see the ikran coming in from the left flank before it hits the pod with a sick thud. The sound of the polyvinyl window cracking and the hissing of air as the cabin begins to lose pressure is the sound of his nightmares.

He turns to look and sees Una hanging on to her seat with both hands, sharp teeth showing in a grimace. Her hair is blowing upward towards the roof of the pod, giving her an even more ethereal look than usual. John and Greg are both moving, though Mycroft can only spare them a few seconds glance, with the change in pressure inside the cabin, the entire craft is becoming more and more difficult to steer by the second.

“No!” He shouts, but he cannot let go of the stick now or they will plummet to their own deaths. After everything that has transpired, he will not lose them all now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapter: I need to rework the last bit a smidge before posting it, so hang on to your hats: it is almost over!


	23. I See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one is floating in space, there is no sunrise. No sunset at all; nothing natural to mark the passage of time, nothing to set one’s biorhythms by

The situation is perilous, at best. Una is halfway hanging out the side of the transport pod; John and Greg each have one of her arms. Mycroft is trying to keep the aircraft in the sky; several of George’s strong tentacles hold him in place against the suction coming from the damaged hull. Sherlock is doing everything he can do in order to stay against the wall of the pod, as the hole stretches from in front of Una’s seat to just in front of his. The rush of air from the hole is suffocating as it replaces the oxygenated mix in the pod with that of the higher xenon and nitrogen content of Pandora’s atmosphere.

Mixed with the voices of the men warning the Telom to hang on is the wailing screech of the ikrans as they pass over and around the craft. Sherlock turns his head and holds his breath as he looks for the pod carrying the Omaticaya. He sees it rising slowly beside and above them, though he finds a great irony in the fact that the ikrans are not attacking it. There is another horrible screech and their pod lurches almost vertically in mid air. The lights in the pod flicker out, plunging the interior of the craft into total darkness save for the tiny lights on the dash. Una’s pain-filled scream is all too clearly audible over the sound of the flying animal but then it just cuts out. Sherlock’s head whips towards her, though the answer is already clear before his eyes find hers.

Time freezes. There are tears running down John’s cheeks and Greg’s eyes are wide with shock. They continue to hold onto her even though there is nothing left to save. Una’s stare is fixed, seeing no more. A trickle of reddish violet blood runs from the corner of her mouth; John is sure her sharp teeth pierced her tongue. Sherlock stands up with a death grip on the seat. He looks out through the hole to see that her legs are missing. The ikran snapped at whatever happened to be moving as it dove towards them.

Mycroft’s voice makes tiny cracks through the air as if they were walking across a newly frozen pond. “You have to let her go.” Sherlock’s eyes meet his shadowed ones over the heads of the two men holding the Telom’s arms. He merely blinks at his brother in acknowledgement. It is the only way. His own voice is a weak burr when he restates his brother’s order. John and Greg snap out of it and simply let go. Greg snaps to attention with his legs spread shoulder-width apart against the rocking of the pod and honors her with a crisp salute. At once, several of the ikran scream and dive after the falling body. John hauls Greg in by his shoulders and shoves him back towards where they were sitting earlier. It is currently the safest place to be. Though none of them say it, they are all unsure if the small craft will survive the change in atmospheric pressure with a hole punched in the side of it.

There is a loud groaning, grinding sound just as the pod carrying the Omaticaya passes into the highest point of the atmosphere. The sky around them changes from slate gray to bright white and then the scarlet of fresh blood.

They are all suffering from dizziness and increasing nausea by the time the tractor beam of the _Proto-Tethys_ pulls them into the docking bay. The pod shakes and trembles, though by some miracle of science it holds together enough to get them to safety.

Again, everything has been slowed down and to John it is like watching a film through a glazed window. He sees rather than feels the medical staff hauling all of them out of the pod. He sees Mycroft hit the floor of the bay on his knees. He sees Greg rush to his side and tuck him into a deep embrace. John can still feel the bucking of the craft and the very realistic, heavy fear that perhaps they are not going to make it out alive _this_ time. He sees clearly that Mycroft saved all of their lives with his cold logic. He sees that they have lost one of their own. Everything around him is tilting, spinning out of control…he sees the captain as the captain makes his way towards where he thinks he is now on the floor himself, gasping for breath; neurons and synapses in his brain are moving as if through a thick pudding. He sees as Sherlock reaches out towards him, a gesture mimicking that of Greg’s. He sees the strong arms come around him and then he succumbs to oxygen deprivation and sees no more.

~***~

When one is floating in space, there is no sunrise. No sunset at all; nothing natural to mark the passage of time, nothing to set one’s biorhythms by. There are clocks, however, and most of them are set to Earth’s time simply because it is easy for beings of all races to accept a twenty-four hour “day.” When John’s awareness slams back into him, he opens eyes that feel as if they are full of grit to see that he is lying on his back on a thin mattress on a cot in the hospital level; he realizes that he has been thinking about “time” and how much he appreciates the fact that he still owns some of it. The bright lights above him threaten to send him back in a dizzy dance, so he closes his eyes again and counts to fifteen. Inhaling steadily, his lungs burn and he coughs but manages to push up into a sitting position nonetheless. He searches the room for something to tell him how long he had been out. He only has to wait a moment before the bright red digits of the ship’s clock flash across the wall. Damn. If that is correct, he has been out for close to fourteen hours. He rubs his face with his hands, warming his cheeks in the cool air and attempting to force some order into his thoughts.

As he rubs his face, he notices that the cot next to him is empty; the single blanket thrown out of the way as its inhabitant left it. There is no doubt in his mind that this is where Sherlock had been. A soft but tired smile graces his face for a moment and he looks to the other side. Greg is still out cold on his back, though the cot on his side is also empty. Apparently, Mycroft was brought in as well. John is wondering about George when the doors whoosh open and Captain Holmes strides through them, looking none the worse for the wear and absolutely magnificent.

He has chosen to actually button up his sapphire shirt today, though it splays open over his neck, allowing John a clear line of sight to his collar bones. His hair is neat, boots polished within an inch of their lives, trousers tucked down into them. When he smiles at John, John cannot help but feel like a dying man that has just been offered a gourmet meal. In three strides, Sherlock is beside him and John is completely engulfed in his arms. Sherlock drops a loud smacking kiss to the top of his forehead and John swats at his rear end with his free hand. The captain actually chuckles as he moves back so that he can assess his partner. John knows better than to think Sherlock will ever come right out and ask him how he’s feeling, especially when he can just _see_ it.

“I’m alright, Sherlock. Still tired, though.” Sherlock rests one hand on John’s shoulder.

“You can go back to our quarters if it would be more comfortable.” Sherlock offers.

“Yes, please. Unless you need me for the time being?”

“No. In a few moments I am due back at some stupid IA meeting with Mycroft to discuss the Omaticaya’s future. It may be a while.” John nods just as the doors open again and admit Le’tay. The Na’vi man bends at the waist so that his head misses the top of the door frame, though he gives them a beaming smile only marred by a small re-breather mask that covers his lower jaw, the opposite of what they had to wear while exploring Pandora.

“I see you, John Watson, Captain Holmes.” Le’tay nods his head in a courtly manner. John and Sherlock do the same. Sherlock rests his arm across John’s shoulders as he waits for Le’tay to speak.

“I want to extend our gratitude to you. Though we are unsure as to where we are going to end up, it seems that the galaxy is wide open to us with the use of these.” He gestures towards the mask. John can feel pride radiating from the man at his side and he cannot keep the grin off of his own face. When he looks up at Sherlock, there is a high patch of color on each cheek, though oddly enough, Sherlock just nods and does not say anything.

“You are welcome, Le’tay. It has been a fascinating mission.” John states as he gently pushes Sherlock over with one hand on the taller man’s hip so that he can swing his legs off of the bed. He holds a hand out for Le’tay and he takes it in his very huge one, his finger tips finally resting halfway between John’s wrist and his elbow as he pumps John’s hand. There is a huff of laughter beside him as Greg sits up to take in the scene.

“I see you, Greg Lestrade.” Le’tay states quietly as he and John complete their handshake. Le’tay offers his hand to Greg. This is absolutely the closest Greg has been to one of the Na’vi and to say the man is starstruck is an understatement. Even Sherlock joins in on the laughing.

Finally, Le’tay and Sherlock leave the room, headed towards their meeting to discuss what will become of the refugees. John stands beside his bed as if waiting for something, then seems to make up his mind. “I am going back to our quarters for a shower and some real sleep. Will you be okay here?”

“Absolutely, John, I will be fine. See you in a few hours for coffee?” Greg says as he stretches his legs out in front of him and plops back against the mattress.

“Good. See you then.” John turns and makes his way out the doors. After they close behind him, Greg takes a deep breath and allows himself to relax, preparing for some more sleep. After that he does not remember much for a while.

~***~

When Greg awakens for the second time that day, the room around him is quiet. There is the tiniest of movements to his right and the lightest touch against the back of his hand. Had he been any further down underneath the blanket of unconsciousness, he never would have felt it. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the overhead light to see the admiral sitting by his side, one hand resting in his lap and the other resting right next to Greg’s.

Mycroft’s expression is soft, unaware; though Greg knows well that the gears in his brain are probably running at two hundred kilometers an hour. Greg moves slightly and Mycroft turns his full focus onto him. For a second, Greg is completely humbled by the intense depths of the deep blue irises boring into his own. He feels flayed open and fights the urge to just reach into his ribcage and hand Mycroft his still-beating heart.

There really is nothing to say. Mycroft has already apologized; so he waits. He feels like he would wait forever if it would mean he could be by this man’s side for eternity. It does not show outwardly, but his heart is pounding in his chest and suddenly it is as hard to breathe as it was when they first stepped out of the pod in the docking bay. He watches all the subtle movements of Greg’s face and when the other man turns his jovial root-beer irises fully onto Mycroft, Mycroft actually thinks he heart stops.

“Come here.” Greg orders. One hand wraps around the base of Mycroft’s neck and hauls him in closer. Then their lips are brushing against each other and Mycroft is all but whimpering against his lover’s mouth. Greg’s hands slip down to cup Mycroft’s rear end and physically haul him onto the cot with him. Mycroft rests his weight on his hands and stares into Greg’s face.

“Thank you.” He states, his voice passing over his lips in a much calmer manner than he truly feels. Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist and hooks his fingers into the admiral’s belt, pushing him against his hips. Their kiss is deep and thorough, a reaffirmation of living and possibly a little bit of joy and grief at the same time.

Mycroft pushes himself up on his hands, enough to see all of Greg’s face. For the first time in his life he wants to ask questions like _Are we okay_?and _Where do we go from here_? He already established how he feels for this man and going by the incredibly hot erection pressing against his hip, he knows without a doubt that the feeling is reciprocated.

“I see you, Greg Lestrade.” Mycroft says simply, allowing the purr of his voice to hover in the air about them. Greg’s smile is worth a million suns as he finally begins to understand all of the implications of that statement.

“I see you, Mycroft Holmes.” He answers back before pushing his hips upward and pulling Mycroft’s head downward, allowing them to escape into the bliss of each other bodies.

Of course, it does not last long. Just as they are feeling like they had better stop because, after all, they are in the hospital ward; the doors _whoosh_ open to admit a rather startled looking John (possibly just woken up) and a disheveled but clearly-thinking captain.

Mycroft, to his credit, only pulls himself off of Greg enough to throw an exasperated look in his brother’s direction. “Yes?” He asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Beside him, John is hastily tucking his mustard-colored uniform shirt into his trousers. “My ship, Mycroft. It is missing.”

Mycroft sighs and Greg closes his eyes. “We will get back to this later, I do believe.” He states. Greg mumbles something that is most certainly a yes and then sits up when Mycroft climbs out of the cot. He places his feet flat on the floor and looks at the other three men who are regarding him expectantly. For a second he has an internal argument with his libido and comes out the winner. He gives them all a smile to show that he is ready for action.

“When do we start?” With that, John gives him a slap on the back and the four of them step through the doors to make their way to the lift. The next stop is the control room and from there…

Who knows? The galaxy, after all, is a very large place in which to hide a starship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers who commented and left kudos. This was certainly a fun journey to take! You all kept me going and made it fun to write. One more time: thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know guys...I'm just an addict, seriously a Johnlock addict. Is that even a thing? Seriously? You are all the cake to my Mycroft, the red pants to my Johnlock. Thank you for letting me join you on the playground with my own brand of weirdness :)


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